The Witness
by Quill N. Inque
Summary: Sixth and final volume of my Historical KURTTY Series and the culmination of a year's worth of writing. In Prohibition-era Chicago, a young woman turns to a private detective for help after being marked for death as a witness to a murder...COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

The Witness

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 1: The Beginning- Murder Most Foul!

_"I have built my organization upon fear." -Al Capone_

_Prologue_

_Chicago, Illinois, 1926._

_As Prohibition reaches its apex and the stock markets continue to rise, the United States rides the crest of an unprecedented wave of economic prosperity. The Windy City jostles with New York as the center of all things American, but beneath its exterior of urban expansion and bustling thoroughfares lies a much darker, sinister underbelly._

_The Prohibition act has given rise to the golden age of American organized crime, and Chicago is its unofficial capital. Bordellos, speakeasies and sockhops, serving everything from bathtub gin to the finest sauvignon, cater to the needs of those with a thirst for booze in direct defiance of the law. Criminal kingpins push and shove to stake their claim on the vast market that bootlegging offers, but in time, one has risen through ruthlessness and casual slaughter to dominate all the others._

_Al "Scarface" Capone has the entire city of Chicago in the palm of his hand. No one, it seems, is able to so much as lay a finger on him and his vast underworld empire; the judges are on the take, the cops are crooked, and the lawyers fight each other for spots on Capone's payroll. No one dares to openly defy Scarface and his iron-fisted rule; murder, betrayal, vice and violence are all the order of the day in Chicago's back alleys and dark, unlit streets, and those who are foolish enough to risk Capone's ire have a habit of simply dropping off the face of the Earth._

_This is one lesson that up-and-coming district attorney Mr. Jonathan Pryde has yet to learn. The new DA is not afraid of Capone and his legions of thugs, and has stated in many public appearances that taking down Scarface and cleaning the streets is number one on his priority list. Brave to the point of arrogance and filled with idealism, Pryde works night and day to bring Capone's organization down about his ears._

_Unfortunately, Al Capone does not take kindly to having his lofty position challenged…_

_Now…_

_The Pryde Residence, 11:00 p.m._

Life was quite idyllic for eighteen-year-old Catherine.

As the young socialite daughter of the city's most prominent new official, she always enjoyed everything that early twentieth-century high society had to offer. Grand parties in Carnegie Hall, social visits from her mother's friends and her father's business associates, and the very best education money could buy were all the order of the day for her, and as she had prepared herself for bed that fateful evening, she had happily reflected on the fact that being a Pryde meant that one was denied nothing in life.

Aside from his high salary as a civil servant, Mr. Pryde had recently made a killing in the stock market. Everything he touched had seemed to turn to gold, and it wasn't long before he had had to open up a second bank account just to hold all his money. The Pryde household became filled with priceless knickknacks and antique furniture that had been shipped overseas from Great Britain and the European continent, and the large, crystalline chandelier that hung in the parlor had been made according to Mr. Pryde's exact specifications. Several cooks, maids and housekeepers kept the usual monotony of chores at bay, and therefore Catherine was not the type of girl who had to worry about making her bed herself. That sort of thing would have been done by one of the servants only moments after she would wake in the morning.

Catherine opened a drawer in the mahogany dresser by her bed and retrieved a silken nightgown from its interior, but before she could slip out of her daytime apparel and climb between the sheets, the ringing of the door-chime caused her to glance up. The sudden noise gave her a start, but this didn't bother her very much as she snuck out of her room and peeked over the balcony.

What she saw next would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Outside, a roll of booming thunder heralded the sudden arrival of a heavy squall of rain, and a flash of lightning illuminated, just briefly, the huddled figures on the family's front lawn. A car could be seen parked near the sidewalk, too, but it was the ominous shapes outside that made Catherine suddenly very uneasy.

Mr. Pryde's slippers made a _shushing _sound on the tile as he went to turn the knob, but his cheerful expression disappeared along with most of the color in his cheeks when he opened the door to reveal the squad of heavyset, stubble-faced, beady-eyed thugs on his doorstep. Catherine's father reached for a cane that he kept in a small vase as one of the men, a particularly disreputable-looking fellow with a crescent-shaped scar underneath his right eye, nodded curtly to him while reaching slowly into the folds of his jacket.

"Are you Mr. Pryde?" he asked, his voice thick with a New York accent.

"I am," Jonathan had nodded curtly, as his wife came up behind him with a worried expression on her face. "To whom am I speaking?"

"Just wanted t'make sure we had the right house," the thug grinned maliciously as the barrel of a Thompson submachine gun protruded from the hip of his waist. "An' by the way, Scarface Al said fer me t'tell ya 'hi.'"

_BRAAAAAAAAAAAAT!_

Catherine screamed as her parents' bodies were perforated with dozens of holes, and the whizzing and whistling of flying lead mingled with the shattering of glass and ceramics as the hailstorm of bullets flew in all directions. Mr. and Mrs. Pryde slumped amidst an enormous geyser of blood that painted the walls with a wave of crimson gore, and the man who'd murdered in such cold blood coolly stepped over the ravaged corpses of Catherine's mother and father as his men filed in behind him.

"Tear the place apart, boys," he grunted, gesturing vaguely around him. "Remember, the boss said to leave no witnesses."

The man to his left produced a wickedly-pointed switchblade from up his sleeve. "Can we have some fun with 'em first?" he asked, sniggering with anticipation as he glanced around for a prospective victim.

It was just Catherine's bad luck that his eyes happened to land squarely upon _her._

"Up there!" the hitman shouted suddenly, elbowing his companions to gain their attention. "She's seen the whole thing!"

"Get her!" the man with the Tommy gun snarled, hefting his weapon and slapping another drum in place before pulling the trigger back. "_Don't let her escape!_"

Catherine threw herself onto the floor as the volley of deadly projectiles shattered a gas lamp that had been affixed to the wall, and the searing-hot oil landed with a _splash_ on a set of nearby drapes which promptly burst into sheets of roaring, furious flames. Catherine raised her hands to ward off the unbearable heat as the fire raced along the stair well, engulfing anything in its path as the blaze grew into a firestorm, and though sudden and terrible grief made her heart heavy, Catherine's mind was buzzing with a single thought.

_I've got to get out of here._

Footsteps pounded up the stairs as the group of thugs came in hot pursuit, and Catherine ducked into her room and bolted the door securely shut before she threw open the window. The wall shuddered under the furious pounding of the angered hitmen, and Catherine's heart leapt in her chest as she nerved herself for what she was about to do.

With not even a thought for the rain outside, and with her eyes stinging from the wisps of smoke that wafted under her door, Catherine vaulted over the windowsill and just barely managed to grasp the gutter-pipe that ran around the roof of the house. The cheap aluminum bent with a groan, but it served to slow Catherine's fall as she ripped it free of its moorings. The impact of her body landing on the dripping-wet grass made her teeth rattle in their sockets, but Catherine was up and running just as a spray of bullets chewed the earth where she'd lain just a second before. Gritting her teeth in bereavement and anger over the life that had been so abruptly turned upside-down, Catherine shook off her high heels and began to run as fast as she could, her feet splashing in the mud as the rain soaked her to the bone, but despite her desperation, Catherine took one look back at her former home just enough time to see it become engulfed in flames. The house's framework was silhouetted against the orange-red walls of fire, and Catherine uttered a despairing, heaving sob that was cut short as she heard a car's engine roar to life down the street.

Her eyes streaming with rainwater and tears, the last of the Prydes turned and fled down the dark street. With nowhere to go and no one she could trust, Catherine began to run with no specific destination in mind, only the goal to get as far away from _here _as possible, wherever _here _happened to be. Catherine was smart enough to realize that her being witness to a murder being committed in Capone's name made her a serious liability, and with the entire city in Scarface's pocket, it would not be long before the whole city began hunting her.

She had to find help. Catherine still hoped against hope that there was still _someone _out there who would get her to safety. But with no money and no possessions, where could she hope to go? Certainly anywhere in the U.S. would be out of the question; there was nowhere within America's borders that Capone's long arm could not reach.

Catherine suddenly turned and flattened herself against the wall in a narrow alley. The golden glow of a car's headlights cruised by the sidewalk where she had only just been walking, and the puttering of the transmission mirrored the frenzied beating of Catherine's heart.

There was no use in trying to get anywhere right now, she realized. The streets would be filled with Capone's thugs and spies; she wouldn't even get past the city limits unharmed if she were to travel now. It would be better to wait until the following evening, when the search had died down somewhat, before venturing into the open again.

Catherine hugged her sodden dress closer to her shivering frame, and she began to shudder violently as the chilly rain made the blood freeze in her veins. This, combined with the exhaustion and fear, caused Catherine to collapse in the muck as the night's events finally took her toll, her head nodding forward as her eyes closed.

It was fortunate that Catherine Pryde would not be the only person to pass through the alley that night…

A/N: I'm BAAAAAAAAAAACK! XD I know it's been a while since I wrote "The Emperor's Hand," but I had this little plot bunny and decided to give my Historical KURTTY series a modernized twist. So to new friends, I say welcome, and to old friends, welcome back! For those of you who are not familiar with this series, allow me to answer a few FAQS. First, Kurt retains his mutant appearance but lacks teleportation in this story; Kitty has been reinvented as a normal human. Secondly, the versions of Kurt that appear in my stories may be noticeably different than the character on the show, so if Kurt seems a bit OOC, don't worry; it's all part of the plan, as it were. ^^ Don't be too worried about updates, either; I generally update once every two or three days, so the next installment should be up very, very soon!

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	2. Chapter 2

The Witness

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 2: Meeting of Happenstance

Catherine had no idea how long she'd stayed in the corner of that dark, narrow street, the hem of her dress soaked with filth as she squatted, cold and wet, in the squelching muck. Never in the history of mankind had one person _ever_ managed to look so miserable; Catherine's cheeks, aflame with a fever that had resulted from her prolonged exposure to the elements, were a scarlet color that contrasted with the unhealthy pale shade of her skin. Her teeth chattered like castanets as the rain pelted her in sheets of stinging, icy droplets, and her fingers clutched her chest in a vain attempt to find warmth in the sodden fabric. Catherine's eyes glazed over while she drifted in and out of consciousness, but the long, dark night seemed without end as the tragedy that had befallen her family weighed her spirit down in chains of iron.

The rain went on seemingly without end, and had Catherine retained enough awareness of her surroundings to glance down the street to her left, she would have seen the shadowy figure that was briefly silhouetted against a distant flash of dim lightning.

He was, at first glance, hardly a reassuring sight, and would undoubtedly have resembled the caricature of the classic shady figure that neighborhood watch groups put on their awareness signs. He was clad in a dark grey trenchcoat with a high collar that covered the lower half of his face, and what was not concealed therein was further obscured by the dark fedora that he wore upon his head. His heavy shoes made a distinct _splish_-_splash _pattern as they pattered in and out of the deep puddles, and the hem of his tan-colored slacks was soaked right through as the water stained the fabric. His head was bent low against the driving storm as he shoved both hands into his pockets, and as he raised his face just a fraction, a raw, splitting _crack _of lightning illuminated, for just a moment, a single, golden eye.

Catherine was hardly aware of the suspicious character that negotiated his way around the piles of garbage, and neither was she fully coherent of the threat that he might pose to her well-being. Her body shook violently, racked with a series of spasming chills, and she didn't even respond as the stranger's shadow fell over her.

The man's eyes were hidden beneath the brim of his fedora, but he nevertheless stopped in mid-step and lifted his foot to prod Catherine gently with the toe of his shoe, as if seeking a response.

The sudden physical contact was enough to jolt Catherine to wakefulness, and she went breathless with panic as she stared up at the menacing figure which towered over her.

She had to run, but Catherine found, to her dismay, that she could barely stand. She nevertheless tottered defiantly to her feet, however, and her face was a mask of fierce defiance as she bit back a scream and stared her supposed assailant straight in the eye. If this was to be her end, Catherine had no intention of dying a coward's death. She would not play the role of the damsel in distress and beg for her life for the sake of her executioner's own sadistic pleasure, and if she had anything to say about it, she'd spit in his face as he pulled the trigger.

But no such harm was forthcoming. The stranger, still a head taller than her, raised a single hand to lift the rim of his dark hat and look her in the eye. Catherine shuddered at the sight of his unnatural gaze, for his eyes were the color of honey or amber, but she forced herself to look into them as the rain continued unabated.

The mystery man spoke. "You're a mess, lady," he said.

_You have no idea, _Catherine thought wryly, her face stretching in a bitter grin, but then her features darkened as she cleared her throat and asked roughly, "Who are you working for, that Bugs Moran fellow? Or are you one of Capone's?"

The stranger gave a strangled snort of laughter. "Oh, please," he sneered, once his merriment had died down. "I'm not such a fool as to throw my lot in with any of _their _breed. That kind of job comes with too much risk, for my taste...Not that this one's that much better, mind."

"Then if you are neither Capone's man or Bugs's, then whose side _are_ you on_?_" Catherine demanded.

"The only one I trust. Mine."

Catherine strained to see more of his face, but the sparse light prevented it. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice rising hopefully. "Are you a cop?"

"Nope. Don't wanna be one, either, especially since there's not a clean cop to be found in this godforsaken hellhole of a city," he spat, glancing at his surroundings in disgust. "Gangsters, they're all the same."

"Then why not move?"

"I got nowhere else to go. Why're you askin' these questions, anyway?" the stranger added, before looking her over with a jaundiced eye. "And why're you sitting out here in this weather in your bedclothes?"

"I refer you to the answer you gave _me_," Catherine replied. "As you yourself have said, I have nowhere else to go."

The man muttered something under his breath. "Here," he said, helping Catherine up and gripping her arm firmly to prevent her from falling over. "C'mon."

"Where are you taking me?" Catherine made no attempt to hide her suspicions. "I am not in the habit of accepting invitations from strange men, you know."

"Or I _could _just go inside and leave you in the alley to die," the man's voice held a hint of a grin, pointing to a door at the other end of the alley. "My office is right this way, ya know."

Catherine debated with herself for a moment. She still didn't trust this fellow entirely, but then again, to stay where she was meant certain death. So it really came down to taking this guy up on his offer and risking potential harm, or remain exposed to the elements and be dead by morning.

Catherine had never been a gambler, but given her situation, she was willing to roll the dice on this one. This person hadn't shot her and was clearly disdainful of Capone and his organization, and that was a good sign.

"Do you mind if I ask you your name?" she asked, blinking water out of her eyes.

"It's Wagner," the stranger told her, matching his pace to hers as he fumbled with keys in his pocket. "Kurt Wagner. I'm a private eye."

Catherine's ears perked up at this. "Is that so?" she inquired, the seeds of a plan forming in the back of her mind. "I haven't heard of you before, though."

"I generally take clients from the lower city," Kurt explained gruffly, turning the key in the lock and shoving the door open as a wave of warmth flooded over Catherine's body. "It ain't much," he added, gesturing around as he led Catherine inside, "but the bed's warm and the booze is cold. Shower's that way, in case you were wondering."

Kurt wrinkled his nose meaningfully, and Catherine was suddenly at a loss for words. "Why…Why do all this for me?" she croaked.

"Lady, I may not be the most upstanding citizen you'll ever meet, but even those such as me have limits to apathy," Kurt told her. "Go an' get yourself cleaned up. If you need clothes, there should be some lying around that you can borrow."

"Thank you," Catherine said, and she looked him in the eye as she said it.

Kurt hesitated as he went to shrug off his great heavy coat. "I'm warning you," he muttered, unbuttoning his collar, "I'm not much to look at."

"I hardly think I am in any position to be choosy," Catherine said nonchalantly, waving her hand.

"If you say so," Kurt nodded, doffing his fedora and hanging it on a nearby coatrack, "but don't blame me if you wake up on the floor."

He turned to face her, and Catherine's breath caught in her throat.

Kurt sure as hell hadn't been lying, she'd give him that much. In fact, he looked about as unnatural a man as the stained glass portraits of demons on the windows of the church her parents had attended. His canines were elongated into conical fangs, his skin the color of the deep ocean and covered with a thin layer of velvety fur of the same shade, and he sported three blunt, square-shaped fingers on each hands. A spade-tipped tail-_an honest to God tail!-_writhed about his waist like a living thing, thrashing and snapping like an agonized snake, and as he hung his coat up, Kurt grinned sardonically at Catherine's horrified expression.

"Told ya," he said, winking snarkily. "I didn't scare ya, did I?"

"Who and what _are _you?" Catherine demanded, as she began to seriously reconsider his offer of hospitality.

"Relax, sweet cheeks, I don't bite," Kurt assured her, putting his hands up to show that he meant no harm. "Trust me, I've been asking that question every day of my life."

"Were you…in an accident?"

"As far as I know, I've always been like this," Kurt muttered. "Makes snooping a real damn pain, now that you mention it. I have to disguise myself so my clients don't see me like this; otherwise I'd be run outta town."

"I can see why," Catherine nodded. "Is that why you dress so warmly?"

"Yeah, and let me tell you, it's a damn pain to go outside like that durin' the summer, what with the big coat and all," Kurt snorted, kicking back in the small chair behind his desk and filling a small glass with an amber-colored liquor from a nearby decanter. "It may not be much," he said, changing the subject as he gestured vaguely around him, "but it's home."

Catherine noticed where she was for the first time. _Cozy _was the first thing she thought when she cast a roving eye on Kurt's office-cum-living space; it was certainly not large or elaborate, being located in an old brick building that had survived the Great Chicago Fire, with two small floors that were connected by a winding skeletal-looking steel staircase. The lower level ostensibly served as Kurt's place of business, dimly lit by two gas lamps and sporting two threadbare chairs that were situated in front of the large wooden disk at which he now sat. Several sheets of paper and writing utensils lay close at hand, but work was the last thing on Kurt's mind as he pulled off his thick rubber boots with a relieved sigh and propped his feet up, leaning back in his chair with relish. An inexpensive, mass-produced telephone hung on its hook in the corner within arm's reach, but judging from the dust on its surface, it hadn't been used in a while.

The air was laden with a hint of tobacco, but there were no ashtrays or used cigarettes in sight. Perhaps the smell was a trace of the flat's previous owner rather than its current occupant.

Catherine's face flushed as her stomach let out a full-fledged roar. "I hate to impose further," she asked slowly, "but could I trouble you for something to eat?"

"There's probably something in the icebox that I can spare," Kurt nodded. "But I'd get a move on if I were you, before that nasty-looking fever of yours gets any worse."

Catherine suddenly felt very lightheaded. "R-Right," she muttered, heading upstairs, but not before sparing a final glance at him. "Thank you. I will try to be on my way in the morning."

"That depends," Kurt replied.

"On what?"

"On whether you manage to get away from whoever has you running scared," he elaborated. "Your situation, I think, has rather worsened of late, which, I expect, has given you reason to consider hiring me."

Catherine felt the blood chill in her veins. "Do explain."

"Well," Kurt leaned forward and studied her intensely. "You were in a fire very recently. Your dress is singed and burnt with holes and smudged with ash and rubble. You come from a wealthy family, as evidenced by the material from which your clothes are made and the sapphire bracelet on your wrist. Your hair is also done in a style meant for Chicago's upper-class citizenry, which means that you probably wandered here from Uptown or one of the surrounding neighborhoods. Quite a long way for one person to walk, actually."

Catherine took a deep breath. "You infer much from such small details," she said finally.

"It's what I do," Kurt grinned back.

She went to speak, but the PI cut her off suddenly. "Don't waste your strength, miss. You're in no shape to do anything right now; in fact, you can barely stand, judging from the wobbling of your knees and your unsteady gait. Get a shower and get some rest, lady."

"What about the food you promised me?"

"It shouldn't go anywhere between now and then," Kurt smirked. "I may not be wealthy, but I eat well enough."

Catherine spared an unsteady glance at the door, which Kurt did not miss. "R-Right. Thank you, again…_Kurt_. I will try not to impose on you unnecessarily."

"You know _my _name," he called back, as she mounted the stairs. "But I still do not know yours."

"And until I feel comfortable with disclosing it," Catherine replied, averting her eyes with shame, "I'm afraid that is how it will have to stay. It is…nothing personal, but…"

"We all got secrets," Kurt nodded, pointing to himself. "I should know."

She vanished upstairs, and his eyes lingered on the spot where she'd been as Kurt leaned back in his chair.

_I wonder what she's hiding...?_

A/N: Hey, guys! Chapter two, as promised! ^^ Hope y'all are enjoying the story so far, 'cause I have some BIG plans in store for this fic! And in case any of you were wondering, Bugs Moran was indeed Al Capone's arch-rival in the bootlegging business, and I will confirm that he DOES have a part to play in this fic, for good or for ill…*wink*

And as always, PLEASE REVIEW! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW! ^^

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	3. Chapter 3

The Witness

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 3: A Bargain Struck

Catherine shivered at the blast of cold air that hit her when she opened the shower door. It was, after all, comparatively cold in the small bathroom compared to the steam that filled the shower stall. Groping blindly to her left, Catherine snagged a white towel off a nearby rack and wrapped it around herself, checking and double-checking to make sure the bizarre young man she'd left downstairs had stayed there.

The door of the bathroom squeaked in protest as Catherine nudged it ajar just a touch, and she almost stepped on the shirt and pair of trousers that Kurt had apparently left for her. Catherine took a half-pace backward and scooped the clothes up, but she felt a twinge of guilt for suspecting Kurt of such juvenility so quickly. He had, after all, offered her a place to stay (albeit temporarily), and he _seemed _like a decent sort, but even so…

Catherine sighed. She was no longer sure that there was anyone she could trust within Chicago's city limits. The tentacles of Capone's organization, his legions of spies and watchers and listeners, were literally _everywhere._ How could Catherine be sure that Kurt had been telling the truth? It seemed as if there was no one left in Chicago who was not on Capone's payroll, so why should he be any different?

Catherine felt a pang of fear that made her blood run cold. There was no doubt that Capone was still looking for her; she was the only person who could place his name on the murder of her parents, since one of the thugs who'd invaded her home had stated that he was acting on Capone's orders, and this fact made her a _serious _liability to Capone's entire operation. Her testimony, assuming that there was yet a lawyer who was brave enough to prosecute, might very well send Scarface's criminal empire tumbling into ruin around him, and so Capone had, by now, probably made a big priority of shutting Catherine up for good.

Inwardly, she knew she couldn't outrun him for long.

_But this Kurt fellow might be of some help, _Catherine thought, _assuming that he was telling the truth. Private investigators are not employed by the city, so there's a chance that Capone hasn't put Kurt in his pocket yet. And his underworld connections, which he undoubtedly has, may yet prove useful._

She pulled the shirt over her head, her fertile mind buzzing with the beginnings of a strategy. _Kurt might be persuaded to help smuggle me out of the city for the right price, _she thought, riffling through her purse absently. _But I think I should gauge him a little further before I decide to tell him about my predicament. He may be tempted to hand me in for Capone's blood money…_

Catherine felt her chest tighten with guilt again. Kurt had been nothing but gracious and kind to her, and yet she still held him in distrust. Although the crisis in which Catherine found herself demanded such caution, it was nevertheless unfair and unjust and she privately hated herself for it.

A world-weary sigh escaped Catherine's lips as she headed down the small flight of winding, wrought-metal staircase, her footsteps _clanking _on the cold steel as she descended into Kurt's combination of an office, living room and tiny kitchen. The heavy scent of spent tobacco hung in the air, and the small fan in the corner did little to banish it; it hung in gray, winding, ghost-like wisps, and its potency made Catherine dizzy for just a moment before a quick shake of her fair head reasserted her equilibrium.

Kurt, seated at the small metal folding table upon which he seemed to take his meals, hastily plucked the thick cigar out of his mouth and ground it in a nearby ashtray. "I didn't think you'd be done in there so quickly," he said by way of apology. "I don't usually light one up if I have clients or, uh, company."

From the uncertain look on his face (and that face, Catherine thought, would still take some getting used to), she guessed that Kurt didn't have "company" very often, if ever. "Please, don't hold back on my account," she said, waving Kurt's words aside. "You've done…far more than enough already."

He gestured toward the steaming bowl of…_something _that lay atop the old-fashioned wood-burning stove. "You must be hungry."

Catherine needed no second encouragement, but her face registered doubt as she dipped her spoon into the thick, viscous, chunky glop. "What is it?"

"_Sauerbraten_," Kurt explained. "A little taste of the old country. Made it myself, you know."

Catherine took a spoonful of the dish and, mustering her courage, shoved it into her mouth. After the ordeal she'd been through, she was hungry enough to brave such a meal. Of course, Catherine didn't have high expectations since this was foreign cuisine, but again, it was better than nothing.

Her lips closed around the spoon, and Catherine's eyes lit up in delight. "Not bad," she conceded. "Not bad at all."

"I'm self-taught," Kurt explained, digging into his own portion. "I do pro bono work, mostly, so I can't exactly afford to eat out all the time."

There was a moment of quiet as both people concentrated on the food in front of them, and Kurt dug a small, shiny flask from his pants pocket and pulled the stopper out with his teeth. "I think it's about time you tell me," he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his blue, furry hand and looking at Catherine intensely, "exactly what it is you're running from, sweet cheeks."

She stiffened. "I don't know what you're talking about," Catherine said after a short pause.

"Lady, I track down people with something to hide for a _living,_" Kurt grinned roguishly. "It wasn't that hard to figure out, actually. I suspected it the moment I met you; your eyes keep darting to the windows, which tells me that you're afraid of being watched or tailed by whoever is pursuing you, but my theory was confirmed when you refused to tell me your name. And don't try denying what we both already know," he added, holding up a hand to stall Catherine's protestations, "I've been doing this gig long enough to smell a liar a mile away, miss. Don't take me for an idiot."

Catherine sagged like a deflated balloon, her mind racing. Option one: she could stay here, spill the beans to Kurt and pray that he was indeed who he said he was.

Option two: get up from the table and run like hell.

The girl almost chose the latter course of action, but a nagging at the back of her head stopped her. Catherine had already considered using Kurt's unique talents to go below the proverbial radar and flee the city, and now that the jig was up, she realized that there was no way she could escape Capone's reach without Kurt's aid. She'd be gunned down on the sidewalk before she had walked ten paces.

And more importantly, even if she managed to survive out in the open, where else could she go?

Catherine sighed and looked him in the eye. "Even if your accusation _is _correct,, why should you care? It's none of your business."

That last sentence had been added on to test Kurt's resolve. Catherine wanted to gauge Kurt's mettle, and gauge it accurately, before Catherine let him in on the plan that was forming inside of her head.

"Actually, considering how you're staying in _my _house, eating _my _food and wearing _my _clothes, I'd say that it was very much_ my _business, peppermint," Kurt replied, arching an eyebrow. "Not to mention that it's _my _hide I seem to be risking by letting you stay here. C'mon, out with it!"

Catherine put her hands in her lap and stared downwards. What was the point in pretending anymore?

"My name," she began, taking a deep breath, "is Catherine Pryde. My father-"

"I know who your father is, cake-slice," Kurt leaned forward, intrigued. "The fire-eating new DA, right? Seems like a decent enough fellow."

"My father is dead," Catherine kept her voice devoid of emotion, but nevertheless she was starting to tremble. "As is my mother."

"How?" Kurt asked, his eyes softening for a moment.

"They were murdered," Catherine replied. "By some thugs in the employ of a gangster named Al Capone. No doubt you've heard of him. My father was a vocal opponent of Capone and his organization, and as the district attorney, he'd made taking down the gangster a top priority."

Kurt choked on his cigar. "Capone? _The _Capone? _That's _who's after you? Well, I can see why you didn't tell me who you were earlier; he's got eyes and ears everywhere."

"I know," Catherine nodded. "But my father was going to-"

"Your daddy may have meant well, peach-pie, but he should have known better," Kurt shook his head. "Nobody touches Capone and lives to see the sun go down. I mean, the guy has half this city bought and paid for. He's even got _Senators _in his back pocket, and he doesn't take kindly to challengers. So what's Capone want with _you_?" he added. "Seems to me like he's already cut the heart out of the opposition, as it were."

"I am the only witness to my parents' murder," Catherine told him. "If I were to testify in open court, Capone could be implicated."

"Assuming that you can find a lawyer, a judge and a jury in this town who hasn't already been bought or intimidated by Scarface," Kurt said scornfully. "Which is unlikely, by the way. Hate to say it, cinnamon stick, but you're up to your ears in trouble."

She glared at him. "I'm hardly helpless, Kurt. I escaped my home when Capone's apes tried to kill me, didn't I?"

"True, but you won't give him the slip for long, especially not if you stay in the city," Kurt advised. "And even if you don't, Capone has his share of enforcers in other places. I hear Europe is nice this time of year. I'd flee across the Atlantic or perhaps to Mexico if I were you, but even then there's no guarantee that he'll ever stop looking."

"Then if I can't outrun him, I have to defeat him," Catherine said firmly, fierce determination welling up inside her. The girl's heart swelled with righteous anger and vengeful fury, a burning desire to avenge the wrong that had been done to her family that seemed to make every cell in Catherine's body cry out for justice. "If I do this right, then this could be Capone's downfall, just as he fears, and my parents will not have died for nothing. But I need your help, Kurt."

The PI's mouth stopped in middle of forming words. He opened it, closed it, and opened it again, almost like that of a fish, and his stunned expression seemed to be etched in stone before a strangled snigger escaped his lips. His giggles turned into howls of laughter that shook the walls of the building, an Kurt's fist pounded the table as he burst into gales of merriment. Tears streamed from his eyes as his chest heaved, but Catherine waited patiently for the noise to die down as Kurt took a moment to regain his composure.

"Take down Capone? You want me to help you take down _Capone_?" Kurt asked, snickering. "Oh, that's _funny_. For a minute there, I could have sworn you were serious."

"I have never been more serious, Kurt."

"Catherine, I'm a PI, not a cop," he explained, turning serious. "I spy on wives and husbands who cheat on their spouses, I find lost pets and occasionally I track down a kid who's run away from home. If you think of Sherlock Holmes as the quintessential private detective, you need to get a reality check. Don't get me wrong, I don't like Capone any more than the next guy, but what you're suggesting simply _can't be done_. It _should _be done, but it _can't _be done. If we went after Capone, he'd vaporize us before we even got close. You think that because your mother and father got murdered that you know what he's capable of? You have no _idea _what Capone is willing to do to hang on to his power; I've seen alleys that have been painted _red _with blood after he's finished bulldozing over anyone who stands in his way. What you are suggesting can only lead to death."

"You fear him, then?" Catherine asked accusingly.

"I most certainly do," Kurt nodded, unashamed. "_Everyone _fears Scarface Al Capone, strudel, and rightly so."

"I am not among them. Capone is nothing more than a bully and a thug who's gotten on his high horse," Catherine retorted. "And stop calling me pastries," she added, frowning.

"Whatever you say, sweet cheeks," Kurt winked smarmily.

Catherine bristled at his snarky tone. "Enough! Are you going to help me or not?"

Kurt steepled his fingers over the table, his golden eyes intense. "Well, I'll tell you this much: I sure as hell ain't gonna do it for free. PI business isn't charity work, lady."

"Name your price."

Kurt leaned his chair back and took a deep puff on his cigar, thinking deeply. "Trust me, I will. But only when I've filled my end of the bargain."

"Then we have an agreement," Catherine said. It was a statement rather than a question.

Kurt's eyes burned into hers, and he blew a perfect smoke ring as he reached for his coat. "Yeah, I guess we do. It probably won't work and I don't really expect us to have any large measure of success, but in case this _does _work out, it could be my ticket to the big time. I could make a name for myself, maybe even get hired as a liaison to the Chicago PD and move out of this shit-hole tenement of an office. But all of that aside…" Kurt paused and grinned slyly, showcasing those long teeth. "Capone has it coming after what he did to you, and the challenge of getting back at him is just too _good _to resist."

He took a deep drink from his flask. "But first we need to get Capone to call off his goons. We can't even _begin_ to move against him if he knows you're still alive. Once we've done that, _then _I'll see what I can do about getting Capone behind bars. Don't expect any miracles, by the way," Kurt warned. "I'll do what I can, but the chances of actually getting Scarface into a prison cell are slim at best."

"We'll worry about that when the time comes," Catherine shook off Kurt's disclaimer casually.

_I like her style, _Kurt thought, grinning inwardly as he strode over to his desk and reached into a drawer. The PI slowly withdrew a semi-automatic pistol and stroked it lovingly before stuffing it into a holster on his hip.

"You have something in mind, don't you?" she said, glancing at the weapon without the slightest hint of fear.

"Yup." Kurt's tone was short as he walked back across the room, his expression grim.

Catherine never noticed his left hand vanishing up the sleeve of his trenchcoat, and with a skilled flick of his wrist, the PI sent something _blurring _through the air.

_WHIIZZZ!_

A sound like an angrily buzzing bee made Catherine flinch by force of habit, and she stiffened with a jolt of stinging pain as she clasped a hand to the small dart that protruded from her neck. "What...?" she gurgled, tottering almost drunkenly as her words became slurred. "Kurt..."

"I _am_ sorry about this, but I didn't think you'd approve if I told you what I had in mind," he shrugged. "The drug that I've administered will slow your heartbeat and breathing; for all intents and purposes, you will appear to be quite dead."

"But...why?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Kurt caught Catherine as she staggered and lost her balance, and he bore her weight with ease as he lowered her gently to the floor. "If you want to give Capone the slip..."

Her eyes fluttered and began to glaze over, and as Catherine lost consciousness, she heard Kurt finish his sentence in her ear.

"We have to fake your own death."

A/N: Looks like things are getting interesting! But what does Kurt have in mind? You'll have to read the next chapter to find out! ^^ And PLEASE REVIEW! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW! ^^

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	4. Chapter 4

The Witness

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 4: An Attempted Deception! Catherine and Kurt in the Midst of the Enemy!

The rain was still coming down in stinging sheets of freezing water as Kurt Wagner pulled the collar of his sodden trench-coat higher in order to shield his face not only from the inclement weather, but from the passersby as well. Of course, there weren't very many people out and about on the street in weather like _this, _but one can never be too careful.

The deep puddles of squalid filth and dirty water squelched and splashed as Kurt strode carelessly through them, rolling his shoulder slightly to better distribute the weight of the heavy duffel bag that he had strapped over his chest. The large, roughly cylindrical container in which Kurt had placed the unconscious Catherine had been carefully waterproofed against the driving thunderstorm, and his free hand was shoved into his pocket so as to warm the fingers that had been made numb by the cold.

Kurt's dark fedora was soaked all the way through as he glanced subtly to each side before darting across the street. It would be difficult to see if he was being tailed or followed by any of a number of Capone's spies, especially in the Cicero district where the Italian mob reigned supreme. This neighborhood, which was dominated by those with Italian or Sicilian heritage, was in the heart of Capone's territory, a sanctum sanctorum into which Capone could disappear or go into hiding if the need arose. The gangster was popular here, as his morally dubious organization provided a means of high-earning employment for the men and a means of protection for their families. Those who were fooled by Capone's donations to charity or his status as a "Robin Hood" did not entertain that illusion for long once they had actually been entered into the crime lord's ledger. Capone was a harsh, hands-on and brutally efficient employer who demanded unquestioning loyalty from those he commanded, and anyone unfortunate to meet with failure usually didn't live long enough to learn from their mistakes.

It was into this proverbial dragon's lair that Kurt had headed after stuffing the young Catherine's "body" into the sack he now carried with care, and as the street-lights overhead cast a dim glow of golden light onto the pavement, Kurt turned the corner and headed for a particularly disreputable bordello and speakeasy that was a haven for those in Capone's employ.

It was the kind of place one's mother usually warned him or her to stay away from at all costs. Even before he approached the door, Kurt could tell that the place reeked of Scotch, perfume, sweat, alcohol and sex. Raucous laughter, the _clinking _of glasses and the screeching blend of a dozen off-key, baudy and explicit songs made Kurt want to cover his ears, but he suppressed his disgust and instead made for the small, nondescript and deceptively innocent-looking structure in which the evil establishment resided.

Officially, of course, this place did not exist. The sale and consumption of alcohol had become illegal only a few years back with the passing of Prohibition in Congress, but Capone had hit up to the right people in the city government and was thus able to operate with virtual impunity. And even outside Chicago, Prohibition was rarely observed and even more rarely enforced; all it generated, at least in Kurt's opinion, was a way for the nation's criminals to get rich quick and stay rich long.

His foot gave a twinge, and Kurt tried not to wince. He had walked quite a considerable distance to get where he was; Kurt could afford neither a car nor a taxi fare.

The PI gave a grunt as he shifted Catherine's weight again. _I'm sorry, toots, but this is really going to cost you when I calculate my fee,_ he promised her silently, quickening his pace a bit.

Closing in on the side entrance, Kurt found his way suddenly blocked by two enormous men with a distinctly vacant expression on their faces. These, Kurt knew instinctively, were the kind of guys who were about as close as one could get to being Rottweilers and still walk on two legs. Dim-looking and stolidly obedient, they were paid to break things (or people) and not ask questions. Such men formed the backbone of Capone's legions of enforcers.

Kurt pulled his fedora low over his eyes so that the brim shadowed his face, and he didn't even so much as blink in distress as one of the hired gorillas stepped in front of the brothel's door.

"Who the hell're you?" the ape growled.

"You'd best keep on walkin' if ya know what's good for you, buddy," his companion added, cracking his knuckles for emphasis. "There's nothin' for you here."

Though his face was hidden, Kurt's lips cracked in a menacing, predatory smile. "Why don't you fellas step aside?" he asked softly.

The first thug narrowed his eyes. "You threatening us, little man? You have no idea who you're-"

_SNIKT!_

The hilt of a long, thin-bladed stiletto knife slid out of its holster in Kurt's trenchcoat sleeve, and by the time the other man had registered the threat that the wickedly pointed switch-blade posed, he suddenly found its razor-sharp tip shoved so close to his face that it almost tickled his right eyeball. Kurt's hand gripped him like a dog by the hair on his neck, and the mutant gave a savage wrench as he stared his enemy down.

"Move out of my way," Kurt said to his captive's partner, his tone light as if nothing had happened, "or I'll carve out your buddy's eyeball and feed it to him."

Kurt's prospective victim gave a terrified whimper, but the PI pressed the flat of his blade to the other man's lips to silence. "Shhhh," he intoned soothingly in his ear. "I'd stay still if I were you. Who knows? You might just make my hand…_slip_…with all that fidgeting."

The second thug, his brow furrowed in anger, roughly grabbed the door by its thick metal handle and yanked it open. "Enjoy your evening, _sir_," he snarled viciously, making no attempt to conceal his anger.

Kurt's knife vanished back into the folds of his coat, and in response to the man's implied threat, he held his fist aloft and raised his middle finger in a universal symbol of contempt just before the door shut behind him.

The heat inside the place was stiflingly oppressive, especially to one as heavily clad as Kurt. His fur became damp with sweat, but to his credit, he gave no notice of his discomfort. It wouldn't do to show weakness of any kind in front of the bar's patrons, all of whom got their kicks by bullying or belittling those smaller than themselves. No, in order to walk among predators, Kurt had to send the subliminal message that he was an even _bigger _predator. It had worked at the door just now, and Kurt had no doubt that it would work again before the night was up.

Kurt deftly avoided a staggeringly drunk "hostess" who kept tripping over the hem of her flapper's dress. The woman stumbled and fell flat on her face, and her back was made damp by the hem of Kurt's coat as he stepped carefully over her and took a seat at the long wooden bar.

The bartender, an elderly, sophisticated-looking gentleman who looked entirely out-of-place among the rabble of customers, nodded cordially at him. "What'll be, friend?"

"I'm not here to drink," Kurt said, _plonking _his makeshift body-bag onto the counter. What he said next brought an instantaneous, total silence.

"I want to talk to Capone."

A huge hand clapped Kurt on the shoulder, and the PI found himself accosted by yet a third enforcer who was patting him down in search of weapons. The brothel's patrons gasped as the man removed Kurt's beloved Smith & Wesson from its holster, as if no one had dared to come armed inside the place before, but the PI just grinned and played along with the game.

The so-called "search" that the man was conducting would have made a customs official ashamed of himself; Capone's enforcers never realized that the firearm they'd confiscated had been nothing more than a distraction. Kurt disliked guns, even though he was adept and skilled in their use; when pressed to fight, he preferred small, concealable, double-edged knives like the one he'd used earlier. Such a compact weapon was devastating in close combat, and Kurt had also taught himself to throw them with considerable accuracy.

He had no less than ten such knives on him at the moment. Kurt knew he could never get a gun past Capone's men, but he'd decided that it would be prudent to come prepared if something went wrong with his plan.

The guard, apparently satisfied with his meager efforts, straightened up and produced a burlap sack from inside of his jacket. "A formality," he said, answering Kurt's unspoken question. "The boss doesn't want just anyone knowin' where he does his business, see?"

"I can't imagine why," Kurt's tone was sarcastic. "And I suppose he changes locations often?"

"Yeah." The man was so dimwitted that he didn't realize Kurt was playing him for information. "Every coupla days or so."

A growl made Kurt jump as the henchman's accomplice clouted him about the ears. "Shut up, idiot!" he snarled. "Why don't you just give him the password while you're at it? Zip yer yap and take 'im out to the car! Maybe then you can be useful for a change!"

"But I was just saying that-"

"We ain't paid t'talk! This guy wants t'see Capone, we take 'im to Capone, got it? Move along, you!" he added harshly, giving Kurt a shove. "Let's not keep the boss waiting!"

Kurt's hooded head glanced back at him. "Awfully generous of him to see little old me right away," he said casually. "I thought there'd at least be a waiting list or something. We should do lunch."

"Are you always such a wiseass?" the second guard growled.

"No. Sometimes I'm asleep."

"What's in the bag?"

"Nothing that concerns you," Kurt replied. "But I think your employer would like to see it."

"Tell me what's in the bag or I dump yer ass out onto the street."

"It's proof," Kurt shrugged.

"Proof of what?"

"That I'm not making a false claim on one of Capone's bounties. Can we go now?"

"I think it's a body," the first thug whispered loudly.

"Give that dog a biscuit," Kurt laughed. "Took you long enough to figure it out."

The enforcer nudged the duffel tote with his foot. "Whose body?"

"You'll see soon enough."

"Yeah, I guess we will," the thug agreed, pushing Kurt outside and into an idling vehicle that lay parked in the street. The sack in which Kurt's head had been shoved became soaked through in an instant, and water dripped into his eyes as the two men shoved him roughly into the back seat of the car.

"What are you waiting for, numskull?" the belligerent criminal yelled at his dimwitted companion. "Drive!"

Kurt felt his heartbeat speed up a little as a wave of anxiety overtook him. In all honesty, he'd half-expected not to come this far.

The screeching tires sent up a fantail of splashing water, and moments later the dark-colored Ford was lost against the backdrop of pounding rain and inky darkness...

A/N: Oooh, now things are getting interesting! But will Kurt's plan succeed? Will he and Catherine make it through the night with their lives? Find out in coming chapters! And PLEASE REVIEW! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW! I _want _to hear what you, the reader, have to say, so if you have any pointers or tips on how I can make this story more enjoyable for YOU to read, don't hesitate to submit them! ^^

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	5. Chapter 5

The Witness

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 5: Kurt and Capone, Face-to Face!

The next thing Kurt Wagner recalled after being shoved unceremoniously into the back seat of the bulletproof Rolls Royce was being heaved out of it just as quickly. The nerve-wracking ride had actually been quite short, but it was still more than long enough for Kurt to stew in his own anxiety and fear for several nerve-wracking moments before the thug in the driver's seat switched the engine off and yanked the car door open.

"Up ya get, scum," he said harshly, grabbing Kurt by his hooded head and thrusting him out into the driving rain. "This way, and be quick about it!"

"It's rather hard to hurry when I can't see where I'm going," Kurt told him pointedly. "And as long as we're on the topic of who is and isn't scum, I suggest you look in the mirror. Pot calling the kettle black, as the old saying goes."

The man's eyelid twitched spasmodically. Despite the heart-pounding fear that Kurt was experiencing, he nevertheless took delight in driving up the other man's blood pressure, and he was so _good _at it that a few more moments in Kurt's company probably would have had the hot-headed bruiser foaming at the mouth.

"Keep talking, buddy," the ape growled menacingly, grabbing Kurt by his coat collar and heaving him out of the car as though he were weightless. "Just _give _me an excuse to knock your teeth down your throat."

"What about the package?" the man's dimwitted partner asked. "Should we take it in, too?"

"No, just leave it in the rain," the first enforcer said sarcastically. "Of _course _we take it in, you dumbass!"

"Speak for yourself," Kurt snorted.

The irate thug gave a snarl and boxed Kurt about his ears. "I ain't gonna tell you again to _shut the hell up!"_

Kurt was forced to his knees from the impact. _Mental note, _the mutant thought to himself, _in the event that this turns nasty, __he __dies __first__._

The PI stumbled through the open doorway of a dilapidated, sorry-looking and run-down little warehouse, one of many such structures that were a common sight in Chicago at the time. Even through the burlap sack that covered his face, the air stank of fetid water and decaying mold, and the young mutant almost tripped over a vacant chair before the irascible enforcer shoved him roughly into it and yanked the sack off.

It was fortunate that Kurt's hat lay securely on his head, otherwise his bizarre appearance would have been exposed for all to see. A bright light, at first almost blinding in its intensity, made Kurt squint his eyes until everything came into focus. His hand reached up and pulled the fedora a little lower over his eyes.

Across from where Kurt sat, a sparse metal folding table had been brought in, and its surface was bare save for a bottle of sauvignon and a delicate crystalline goblet. A man, seated with his back to Kurt in an expensive looking, rotating armchair, seemed to be wait for the PI to get his bearings before he broke the silence and began to speak.

"I hope, for your sake, that this is important enough to justify throwing a wrench in this evening's agenda. I had to come all the way from the market district to be here; pray that you aren't wasting my time."

"Awfully generous of you to make such an effort," Kurt shot back. "I thought I'd have to leave my name with your secretary."

The hired goon to Kurt's left raised his arm to strike the mutant across the face, but the other man stopped him. "No one's talked to me like that for years," he admitted. "This man has guts, whoever he is; it would be a shame to kill him, as there are so many cowards in this world already."

_You being pre-eminent and foremost among them, _Kurt thought viciously. "Are we here to make small talk or do some business? You're not the only one with other things to do around here, ya know."

"And what business might that be, Mr…?"

The man left his sentence unfinished, and Kurt took the cue to introduce himself. "My name isn't important," he said, praying Capone wouldn't insist on learning his name. The last thing he wanted was for the gangster to know where he lived in case things went wrong. "But I hear you've been having some…troubles…with the new DA."

The mystery man reached behind him and snatched the wine bottle, opening it delicately and taking a moment to savor its aroma before pouring a small measure of the blood-colored liquid into his glass. "Do tell."

"Word on the street is that the Prydes met with an _accident _the other night."

"Yes," the man shook his head in what would have been a convincing display of pity if Kurt had not known the truth behind the murder of Catherine's parents. "A burglary gone bad, it seems. A shame, really; I had nothing but respect for Jonathan Pryde, you know."

Inwardly, Kurt felt his gut roil with fury, and he fumed and seethed in silent anger at the smug expression on Capone's face. What a disgusting piece of human slime he was; how Kurt detested him. No one had ever made his skin crawl with such loathing before. "I found the Prydes' daughter in an alley last night," he said finally, going along with Capone's charade of innocence. "And since you know nearly all of Chicago's upper class citizens, I figured you should be the first person to confirm the body's identity. A mere formality, I'm sure; a moment of your time, and then I'll drop her off at the mortuary."

Al Capone swiveled his chair around. "Of course," he said smoothly, and Kurt could just _picture _the forked tongue of a lying snake flickering out from behind his teeth. "Is the body inside?" the gangster added, nodding at the large bag that one of his goons still held.

Kurt nodded once, and Capone gestured toward his men to lay the large sack onto the floor. The gangster stepped out from behind his makeshift desk and knelt down to pull the zipper, but as he did so he failed to notice Kurt's eyes studying him intently.

_Gee, _Kurt thought to himself. _I thought he'd be taller._

It was true; the gangster, when standing at his full height, was still a head shorter than Kurt. His head was balding, and not even the white hat he wore could fully conceal the ongoing loss of his hair. Capone's head was round, almost like a basketball, with close-set, dark eyes, a large, bulbous nose, and full lips. His dark blazer and slacks probably cost more than the average American made in a year; his white button-down shirt was almost unnaturally spotless, like the tie he wore at his throat, and his Armani shoes had been so meticulously polished that they shone like mirrors.

The ghost of a grin hovered on Capone's face as he looked upon Catherine's fair head. The girl did indeed appear to be as dead as a proverbial doornail, for her skin had turned an unnatural pale shade. Her lips were faded, her skin cold to the touch, and her heartbeat so slow and monotonous that only the most experienced hand would have been able to detect it.

"Poor thing," Capone shook his head, and Kurt silently clenched his fist as he nodded to one of his men, who opened a briefcase filled with hundred-dollar bills and presented it to Kurt.

"Your finder's fee," the gangster nodded. "A token of my appreciation, as it were."

Kurt struggled with his desire to shove one of his knives into Capone's neck. Never had he wanted to kill another human being so badly. "Much appreciated," he said, taking a deep breath. _So far, so good._

The mutant pretended to count the currency, riffling through the stacks of bills, but such a measure was unnecessary because he had no intention of keeping any of it. The only thing such blood money was good for was fuel for the fireplace, as far as Kurt was concerned. Either that, or he might give it all to Catherine, though he doubted she'd accept a single nickel if she was of the same mind as him.

_Maybe I'll just donate it to charity or something, _Kurt added silently. _If there are any charities left that this dirtbag son-of-a-bitch isn't using to launder his money._

He reached to take the attaché case from the mercenary as Capone cast a final gaze downward at his supposed victim, and Kurt's heart almost skipped a beat as he realized that the knockout serum he'd administered would soon be wearing off. With everything that he'd been up to thus far, he'd failed to take the time into account; after all, the drug would not last forever, and another dose of it might prove lethal. The anesthesia that Kurt had given Catherine was good for about two or three hours, tops, and mentally Kurt kicked himself for not keeping a closer watch on the time.

Desperate to avert Capone's attention, he cleared his throat so as to draw the mobster's gaze. "A pleasure doing business with you," he said, nodding with a respect he by no means felt.

"Likewise," Capone's voice was brisk as Kurt tried not to rush to Catherine's side. Although every muscle in his body was screaming at him to hurry, Kurt knew that Capone would notice if he did anything out of the ordinary. Kurt bent down onto one knee at the very moment one of Catherine's eyes opened, but the most Kurt could do to keep her quiet was to wink reassuringly.

The girl, to her credit, was sharper than Kurt had initially estimated. She understood the unspoken message immediately, and, taking in a slow, quiet breath, closed her eyes trustingly as Kurt zipped the duffel bag up again.

_Catherine's got a good head on her shoulders, _Kurt admitted grudgingly to himself. _She'd make a damn good PI._

"I'll just take this out onto the lake and dispose of it, if that's all right with you," the mutant said, heaving the sack over his shoulder. Catherine gave a muted grunt of discomfort in Kurt's ear, but he paid it no heed.

"Please, be my guest," Capone smiled, as though he were merely discussing the weather and not the cover-up of a heinous double-murder. "Make sure to weigh it down with chains, so that it won't float to the surface once it putrefies."

"I'll keep that in mind," Kurt nodded, edging the door open with the toe of his shoe since his hands were full. "Good evening, sir."

"I never did catch your name," Capone called after him.

Kurt stopped just short of stepping out into the storm, and his words were laced with just a touch of menace. "Don't worry. You'll know it soon enough."

Then the PI stepped out into the downpour and was lost in the murky darkness of the city streets, but he had just enough time to hear Capone address his thugs as the door closed shut. What he heard made his blood run cold, and any semblance of bravado on Kurt's part vanished like smoke on the wind as the color drained from his face.

"Follow him," Capone said calmly. "And kill him. Retrieve my money, dump the bodies."

Kurt uttered a vicious curse under his breath and broke into a full-fledged run as the dank, cold mist enveloped him in its oppressive embrace. The mutant shook his head to clear rain-water out of his eyes as he gripped his precious burden in his arms, running with a speed borne of both fear and urgency as his legs pounding like pistons. All Kurt could manage to think about was the fact that he needed to put as much distance away from himself and the gangster's thugs as he possibly could; it was only by sheer luck that Kurt had already gained a head start on his pursuers.

A bullet, fired from a silenced pistol, chewed the corner of a brick building only inches away from Kurt's head. The mutant craned his head as low as he could while a second slug almost hit his ankle, and as Kurt practically threw himself around the corner and into a nearby scullyway, he put a finger to his lips as he hid the duffel bag behind a nearby dumpster, unzipped it and looked Catherine in the eye.

The young woman's eyes focused on Kurt as the last remnants of the serum wore off, whereupon Catherine promptly reached out her arm and slapped Kurt across the cheek.

"What the hell?" Kurt's tone was outraged. "I didn't deserve that!"

"Yes, you _did,_" Catherine glared at him. "You drugged me! When were you going to let me out of there, anyway?"

Kurt glanced to one side and then the other with a conspiratorial air about him. "Listen to me very carefully," he said harshly, gripping Catherine by her shoulders and shoving a battered key into her hand. "Capone's men are only moments behind us. This key unlocks my office; take it and go! I'll meet up with you there once I've given these apes the slip._ Go, _and don't stop for _anything_, do you understand_?_ The one edge we have is that Capone still thinks you're dead; if he finds out otherwise, it's all over."

"What about you?" Catherine's voice was trembling slightly, but her gaze was strong.

"I can buy you a few minutes if I give Capone's guys someone to hunt," Kurt said flatly, his face turning ashen as the shouts of his assailants reached his ears. "They've already picked up my trail. _Run."_

But still Catherine hesitated to leave her new friend behind, and Kurt gave her a shove forceful enough to propel her around the corner and out of sight. "Do as I say!" he shouted. "There's nothing more you can do here! Get away now while you still can, before they see you! There will be other chances to avenge your parents' murder! Now _GO__!_"

The young woman felt her eyes sting with tears as Kurt's bravery moved her, but she had no time to tell him so as she flattened herself against the far wall so as to hide in the deep shadow. Kurt, meanwhile, unfolded two of his trademark stiletto knives with a collective, sharp-sounding _snap, _and his coat swirled about his ankles like a great, heavy cape while a flash of lightning illuminated Kurt's menacing silhouette against the raging thunderstorm. The mutant looked for all the world like some mythical hero preparing to make his final stand against an overwhelming enemy, and this thought made Catherine's heart plunge into the pit of her stomach as she reluctantly turned and vanished into the murky twilight.

Kurt breathed a sigh of relief, and he took a deep breath to muster his courage as his face split into a feral grin.

"All right, ladies," he muttered. "Let's dance, shall we?"

A/N: Oh, SNAP! Well, that doesn't look too good for Kurt, does it? XD But will Catherine make it to safety? Will Kurt meet an untimely end? Find out in coming chapters! And please, PLEASE review! Seriously, I only got a handful of comments on my last chapter, and I always value the input and ideas of my readers! If any of you have any suggestions on how I can make this story even better, LET ME KNOW! I WANT to hear what YOU have to say! YOUR OPINION COUNTS! ^^

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	6. Chapter 6

The Witness

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 6: A Desperate Fight!

Kurt's knuckles creaked as he tightened his grip on the lethally sharp instruments that he held in his blunt, square-shaped fingers, and he blinked rapidly in an attempt to blink rainwater out of his eyes while his tail thrashed like an stricken serpent.

The twilight gloom was split by a bright, flashing pinprick of light that emanated from somewhere within the thick bank of heavy mist, and Kurt could just make out the rapid _rat-tat-tat _of a Tommy gun against the roaring thunderstorm. His coat flew behind him as he threw himself to the pavement and rolled behind the cover of a nearby trash can, which was immediately turned into Swiss cheese as the hailstorm of shrieking lead perforated the thin metal. Kurt waited until the sporadic fire had slackened off, and as his assailants grew closer, he could hear them talking.

One of them, presumably the man who'd opened fire, slid a second drum into the barrel of his submachine gun with a telltale _click _that Kurt instantly recognized. The mutant waited until he could _hear _the footsteps of his pursuers, and when they were almost upon him he burst out from his hiding place with a deep-throated, challenging snarl. A flurry of scalpel-bladed knives _whizzed _through the rain like shuriken from a ninja's palm, and from within the gloom, someone gave a wet, breathless gasp as one of the lethal projectiles lodged at an angle just underneath his chin. The blade was driven so deeply into the mercenary's flesh that its tip punched through the base of his skull and punctured his brain, and Kurt's victim gave a wet, muted gurgle of surprise before collapsing in a growing pool of his own blood that tainted the rain with gore.

"What the hell?" someone cried.

"There he is!" another pointed, raising a revolver and promptly opening fire. The night was split by a quick series of earsplitting _cracks, _and the hem of Kurt's trench-coat was drilled with holes as no less than four lead slugs punched through the tough fabric like a poker through snow. Sparks flashed as the bullets ricocheted off nearby pipes and walls, but Kurt was already up and moving before the shooter had finished squeezing the trigger.

The PI sent twelve inches of steel death spinning through the air with an expert flick of his wrist, and the shooter screamed in pain as the blade lodged itself through the palm of his hand. He went to pull the knife out, but Kurt was on him like a ravenous wolf before the stricken man could call to his companions for aid. The mutant drove yet another one of his thin-bladed knives so deep into the man's jugular vein that it buried itself in his flesh all the way up to the hilt, and Kurt's foe gave a dying, sucking breath of sheer agony as Kurt wrenched his weapon loose amidst a spray of blood. Gunfire erupted from the down the street, and Kurt's body stiffened as a steel-jacketed round tore its way through the muscle of his arm; he had to clench his teeth _hard _to stop himself from screaming in agony. Grunting with pain, Kurt managed not to clasp a hand to his wound and instead seized the corpse of his latest victim so as to use the body as a macabre sort of shield.

This tactical maneuver was proven wise only seconds later. The body was riddle with so many holes that its owner's identity became practically unrecognizable. Kurt's clothes became soaked with blood as he threw the ravaged remains to one side, but despite the peril of his situation he took a moment to thumb his nose at his attackers while they struggled to reload their weapons.

"Nice shooting, Tex!" Kurt called out jeeringly ducking to avoid a stray shot to the head and sending a lethally sharp blade whirring on its way. "Who taught you how to use a gun, your grandmother?"

The man whom Kurt had targeted with his knife bent at the waist, and he hissed angrily by way of reply as the weapon clattered harmlessly off a brick wall and landed in a nearby puddle. With a wave of his arm, he motioned for the rest of his squad to fan out behind him.

From his hiding place, Kurt paled as he realized just how much the odds had been stacked against him. He'd assumed that there were no more than four or five men on his trail at the very most.

There must have been at least twenty thugs that fanned out in a semicircle through the empty street.

Kurt groaned inwardly as he reached into the folds of his coat for another brace of knives, and the air chattered with sporadic volleys of gunfire that pinned him down in the narrow crevice where he'd taken refuge. The blinding flashes of igniting gunpowder lit up the night with flashes of yellow and orange, and Kurt was forced to cover his ears against the enormous din.

The mutant PI winced as a Teflon-coated round punched a fist-sized hole in his beloved fedora. The impact drove the hat right off Kurt's head and into the street, where it was promptly shredded to pieces.

_Well, this sucks, _he thought grimly. _If I stay put, I'm dead. If I try to move, I'm dead._

Then, slowly, his lips stretched into a sly grin, and Kurt winced in pain as he used his injured arm to shrug off his now-ragged and torn trenchcoat. The detective tore a piece of the cloth from the coat's hem and bound it around his injury, and, that done, Kurt bundled his jacket up and inched toward the sidewalk.

_If they want something to shoot at, I'll __give__ them something else to shoot at, by gum!_

He clenched his teeth and drew in a sucking breath, and Kurt's eyes watered with agony as he used his wounded limb to throw his heavy coat into the air above his head. A hailstorm of lead instantly shredded what was left of his thick overcoat, and the mutant used the momentary distraction to leap out from under cover and send a flurry of whistling, scalpel sharp razors whizzing toward the enemy. Screams and cries could be heard amidst the dull _thudding _of metal embedding itself in human flesh, and Kurt gingerly ran his tongue along the edge of his blade as he sighted down the hilt and threw it with expert precision. A man screeched as the weapon seemed to sprout from his left eyeball; he collapsed, trying to pull it out as he died, and his dying howl mingled with the death-cries of those around him as Kurt's projectiles found their mark among the ranks of the enemy.

Kurt leapt into the air, crossing his arms over his chest with a blade in each hand, and his disfigured face was momentarily shadowed by a flash of lightning as he leapt upon the stunned and disoriented thugs like a bat out of hell. The mutant delighted in his enemies' screams of terror as they looked upon his demonic features; he did not fear being exposed, for Kurt silently vowed to himself that none of these wicked men would leave this place with breath still in their bodies.

Like a whirling dervish of razor-edged steel, Kurt landed in the midst of the enemy and promptly cut the hamstrings of a man who'd made the mistake of standing too close. The stricken thug screeched as his legs collapsed, and Kurt grabbed his head with both hands and snapped his neck with a grisly _crunching _noise as he fell to the ground. Without even a backward glance, the PI lifted the corpse bodily and flung it head-first into several of the slain man's companions; they went down like ninepins under the corpse's weight, and Kurt twisted to one side just in time to avoid a burst of chattering gunfire that erupted to his left. The whizzing slugs carved bloody furrows in the skin of his right shoulder, and the PI retaliated with a practiced flick of his wrist that sent a pair of deadly daggers hurling end-over-end to lodge solidly in the gunman's chest, just below the heart. Blood gushed out of the wounded man's torso in spurting jets of crimson as he automatically clapped a hand to his wound, but Kurt took the liberty of ending his suffering with a quick, savage slash that severed the injured man's trachea.

Something collided with the back of Kurt's head, and he grunted in surprise and pain as a pipe-wielding enforcer brought his crude, makeshift weapon back around to shatter the side of the mutant's face. Kurt's twin knives plunged downward in an X-shape, catching the pipe in mid-swing, and the detective pushed his attacker backwards with a savage kick before tearing open a pair of long, deep slashes along the length of the man's chest. The pipe clattered to the ground as its owner collapsed in a spray of blood that painted Kurt's cheeks with spots of crimson gore, and Kurt, wasting no time, added yet another tally to his body count as he slashed open the femoral artery of one who made the mistake of trying to lash his foot out and sweep Kurt's legs out from under him. The mutant's tail shot out like a snake, wrapping around the man's bleeding limb and jerking him forward with a sudden _yank,_ and his screech of dismay was cut abruptly short as the tip of Kurt's blade emerged from below his chin.

A wave of dizziness made Kurt's vision swim as the wounds he'd accumulated began to take their toll, and he regained his footing just in time to see a brass-knuckled fist swinging toward his left cheek. Kurt's eyes rolled back in his head as his jaw threatened to shatter under the crushing impact, and the coppery taste of blood was strong in his mouth as he spat out a dislodged molar and lashed out blindly with a wild, back-handed haymaker. Kurt was instantly rewarded with a sickening _smack _that was reminiscent of an iron bar slamming into a wet side of meat, and, with rage in his heart, the mutant drove his kneecap into his attacker's gut before flaying open the skin of his face with a quick, surgical swipe of his stiletto.

Kurt looked for all the world like the protagonist from the hit movie "V for Vendetta" as he pulled yet another pair of double-edged cutlery from the sheaths on his legs, but then his eyes lit up with fiendish joy as they landed upon the fallen shooters abandoned submachine gun. Kurt ignored the screams of protest from his injured shoulder as he dove to the asphalt and seized the still-loaded weapon and brought it around to bear at his attackers.

"_Say goodnight, Gracie!" _ Kurt shouted, squeezing the trigger and clenching his teeth against the weapon's bucking recoil.

_BRAAAAAAT!_

The air became thick with the choking smell of spent gunpowder, and mist became tinted with red as Kurt mowed down everything and everyone in his path. Nothing was spared as the mutant swept the sputtering firearm from one side to the other, hurling volleys of whizzing, leaden death at anything that dared to move as his body threatened to give out under the weight of his injuries. Men twice as tall as Kurt fell like wheat before the mower's scythe, their bodies so perforated and punctured with bullet holes that they were rendered practically unrecognizable, and the streets literally ran _red _with blood as the gore-spattered corpses _plopped _and _splapped_ to the concrete like wet sacks of butchered meat.

The Tommy gun's barrel was still smoking when Kurt dropped the spent weapon to the pavement as though it were a handful of plague virus. He staggered almost as though he were drugged as the adrenaline in his veins began to disappear, and Kurt's entire body was a mass of sheer _pain _as he heard the approaching wail of sirens begin to draw near.

The PI drew in a sharp breath, realizing how exposed he was without his coat and hat to conceal his unique appearance. Without a backward glance at the terrible scene of carnage he'd created, Kurt literally turned tail and ran for his life. It would not be long before Capone heard of what had happened here, and Kurt needed to plan his next move before the gangster could adjust to the situation. To that end the brave PI now turned, hurtling down the dark street as his chest heaved in and out with ragged, tired breaths. Though Kurt's place of residence was no more than a few blocks from his current location, the safe haven of his home had never seemed so far away.

Kurt vaulted over an inconveniently-placed dumpster as his legs pounded the pavement. Though he was certain the cops hadn't seen him flee the battle site, one could never be too careful.

The PI, sensing his energy ebbing, stopped for a moment to catch his breath, leaning heavily against the side of a warehouse as his entire body trembled with exhaustion. But despite his ragged physical state, Kurt's split lips nevertheless cracked into a wry smile for just a moment.

_I should have known that dames are nothing but trouble…_

A/N: WOO! Looks like Kurt can kick some major ass when he needs to, eh? But did Catherine arrive at Kurt's home safely? Will Kurt manage to survive Capone's wrath? And is there anyone on whom our heroes can rely? Find out in coming chapters! And PLEASE REVIEW! If YOU have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW!

On another note, I wish to make a small announcement as to what I will be working on after "The Witness" is completed. I recently received a suggestion for a story from a user named "animefan0000012345," who asked that I read the poem, "The Highwayman," by Alfred Noels and base a story upon it. I was very flattered and pleased at the idea, and once I read Noels' work, I decided that animefan's idea held more than a little merit. Therefore, I am pleased to announce that I have decided to write a historical Rogue/Remy story. I have tentatively titled it "Le Voleur de Grand Chemin," and it will be set in 18th century France and focus on the romance between an infamous highwayman (Remy), and a rebellious daughter of a well-to-do family of nobles. While I don't plan to make this fic into another series, I nevertheless wish to give all credit for the idea to animefan0000012345, and hopefully it won't be too long before you all get to read the end result of her submission! Animefan, if you're reading this, I want to thank you wholeheartedly for a wonderful story idea; it's readers like you that make this web site worthwhile! ^^

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	7. Chapter 7

The Witness

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 7: Blood Debt

Kurt clapped one hand over his face as he fled the sounds of the sirens that heralded his imminent doom, and inwardly he cursed himself for a fool for being cocky enough to fire off a semi-automatic weapon in the middle of the street like he'd done only moments ago. The trickles of blood that ran down Kurt's injured shoulder soaked his trouser leg with gore and left a thin red trail in his wake that was continuously washed away by the driving sheets of icy rain, and the mutant clapped a blue, furry hand to his wound in an attempt to staunch the bleeding as he hurtled down the dark, foggy street.

Kurt felt his heart begin to beat so fast that he feared it would burst. Without his trusty coat and hat, being caught by the police would be as good as a death sentence. He doubted that the men of Chicago's Finest would be as understanding about his…_unique _appearance as Catherine had proved to be. Not only that, but Kurt was also well aware that Capone had plenty of ears inside the police department; if he were detained, it would not be long before one of Capone's dirty cops murdered him in his cell.

Every muscle of Kurt's exhausted, injured body cried out for him to cease running and rest for just a moment, but the mutant paid it little heed; he could not afford to stop until he had outmaneuvered the blue-uniformed men who were now pursuing him.

_You won't get me, _Kurt silently promised his newest enemies. _I didn't beat some of Scarface Al's best men only to get my ticket punched now, dammit!_

Some distance behind his fleeing shadow, the shouts of Chicago's police force were joined by a clamorous cacophony of what was unmistakably the barking of some large type of dog. The hounds, slavering and drooling and straining at their leashes, shot after the retreating Kurt like arrows from a bow. The mutant chanced a look back over his shoulder and decided that he did _not _like what he saw.

_Oh, come ON! Dogs?_ Kurt thought with exasperation. _They're seriously sending __dogs __after me? That's just __mean__!_

Kurt patted his pockets as he ran, and moments later he had tapped into what was left of his dwindling reserves of small, thin-bladed and lethally sharp throwing knives. The tip of Kurt's tongue protruded out of the side of his mouth as he aimed from out of the corner of his eye, and, with a silent prayer of hope, the PI sent a whirring blade _thudding_ solidly into the broad chest of one of the large Dobermans, which flipped end-over-end in its death-throes as its companions tripped and stumbled over its dying body. The beasts whimpered and whined in confusion, bereft of the direction of their masters, and Kurt capitalized on this momentary reprieve as he rounded the corner and lifted the lid off a nearby garbage receptacle.

_I am __not_ _going to enjoy this,_ Kurt admitted to himself, closing his eyes briefly in a pained wince. _But I suppose it's better than the alternative…_

Holding his nose against the reeking stench of the metal can's contents, Kurt heaved the lid off and leapt inside the small, dark, fetidly warm space with a sickening and nauseating _squelching _sound.

The smell was so overpowering that it was all Kurt could do to keep from regurgitating the _sauerbraten _dinner he had shared with Catherine earlier. He almost wished for some merciful soul to come along and cut his nose clean off; the unholy smell was so cloying and noxious that he was forced to breathe through his mouth.

Kurt's fingers scrabbled for the trash can's lid and pulled it over his improvised crawl space only moments before his pursuers came _tramping _up the street; Kurt's keen ears picked up the men's footsteps, and he heard them slow as the cops came across the still-warm body of the dog he'd slain.

"We're on the right track," one of them, presumably the person in command, declared with the authoritative air of one used to being obeyed. "See this knife? It's the same kind as the ones we removed from the bodies. He can't have gone far, boys! Split into groups and find him!"

"But we don't even know what he looks like," one of the officers interjected, and Kurt felt his heart leap with wild hope when he heard what the speaker said next. "We only caught a glimpse of him fleeing the scene, remember?"

"We'll know him when we see him!" the first man declared. "He's sure to have at least one bullet hole in his body after facing ten or fifteen guys armed with Tommies. If he checks into a hospital, he'll wake up in handcuffs! Now fan out and find him! _Move!"_

There followed a furious stampeded of tromping boots as the other policemen hurried to obey their superior's command, but even so, Kurt stayed in his place of concealment long after their footsteps had faded into the dark, rainy night. He was so consumed with terror at the thought of being exposed that more than half an hour went by before Kurt could bring himself to peek out from under the garbage can's lid. His golden eyes peeked out from within the dented metal bin's dark confines and glittered with a strange light that one would expect to see on a hunted animal rather than a human being.

Slowly, ever so slowly, and taking care not to make any more noise than was absolutely necessary, Kurt, now coated with filth and refuse, crawled out into the still-pouring rain. Once he'd made sure that the proverbial coast was clear, Kurt stood in that same spot for a few moments more so as to let the rain wash away the garbage he'd accumulated on his body. It didn't do much for the smell, but the feeling of the cool water on his fevered brow made Kurt feel enormously refreshed, and after taking a moment to get his bearings, the mutant checked to satisfy himself that no one was watching and set off at a southwest tangent. Kurt made an effort to avoid the main thoroughfares and highways that were used by Chicago's nighttime commuters, as appearing in such a place would almost certainly mean instant exposure. Rather, like a rat in a maze, Kurt kept to the winding back streets and rat-infested alleyways that honeycombed the city like a beehive. The routes he took were known to very few people other than himself; having lived in the Windy City most of his life, Kurt knew its streets and city blocks better than almost anyone living. Running on pure instinct and silently grateful for the darkness that served to hide his appearance from prying eyes, Kurt darted, ducked, slinked and snuck his way back to the sanctuary of his office. It was slow going; several times, Kurt was forced to hide behind dumpsters or heaps of dilapidated cardboard boxes to avoid the attention of unwanted passersby.

If he'd been in a better mood, Kurt would have laughed at the absurdity of it all. _I've already cheated death twice so far. But then again, they say the third time's the charm. At least there's no way this day can get any worse-_

Kurt rounded the corner and blushed as he realized that he'd just interrupted the coital activities of a young couple who were kissing passionately behind the rear exit of a run-down speakeasy. The girl who had moments ago been in the arms of her lover now had an expression of horror as she took in Kurt's mutated features, and she uttered a terrifying gurgle as the man followed her gaze.

The male, presumably her boyfriend, gasped in shock. Kurt tried to run, but he found that his feet had suddenly and inexplicably become glued to the floor. The young man's face twisted in disgust as he removed a small firearm from the pocket of his coat, and Kurt rolled his eyes wearily as he heard him pull the hammer back.

Kurt wheeled sharply around and began to run yet again, panting like a dog while his tongue lolled about his fangs. Despite his abject misfortune, Kurt grinned with bitter amusement as he heard the girl begin to scream her head off as she rediscovered her vocal cords.

_That's the last time I __ever __tempt fate, _he thought dryly. _God, I hope the girl has had better luck than I have so far…_

_Meanwhile…_

_SLAM!_

Catherine Pryde, soaked through by the rain yet again for the second time in as many days, banged the door to Kurt's office shut with such force that it nearly rattled off its hinges while the entire wall visibly _shook_ from the impact. Her hair hung in wet, stringy locks that stuck to her face and interfered with her vision, and she gasped with both the effort of her recent physical exertions as well as with numbing, exhausting relief that swept over her in a massive wave.

Catherine braced both hands against the wall, her heart thundering in her chest with such force that she feared it would self-destruct. Her brain was running at a thousand thoughts a second, her eyes wide with fear and her skin pale from the bitter cold.

She bent down low behind the windowsill and pressed an ear to the wall, listening intently for and hoping desperately not to hear any indication that Kurt's pursuers had picked up her trail-

-Nothing. The only sound that could be heard outside was the ceaseless, _pitter-patter_ of the rain on the rooftop and the intermittent, distant thrum of some far-off vehicle. The street, to Catherine's indescribable relief, appeared to be utterly deserted.

Catherine took just a moment to pull the curtains shut before she sagged into Kurt's office chair as weariness overcame her, and the sodden dress that she wore covered the seat cushion with water. Although she was by no means weak, the ordeal of cheating death two times in two days would almost certainly knock the starch out of even the healthiest and heartiest human being.

As her frantic breathing began to slow and her heart-rate gradually returned to its normal, rhythmic beat, Catherine felt a chill go down her spine as the wet fabric which clung to her slender frame began to feel as though it were made of solid ice. The shirt and pants she now wore were borrowed from Kurt's wardrobe, but despite the generosity that Catherine's new friend had showed thus far, the situation called for a fresh set of garments to replace the ones that now dripped onto the carpet.

Inwardly, Catherine felt rather guilty, as though she were imposing. She was a guest in this man's home, for crying out loud! It was not her place to simply _take _things that she needed, especially if she had to rummage through Kurt's wardrobe to do it!

_If he were here, I'd ask his permission,_ Catherine tried vainly to reassure herself. _But I can't wait around until he gets back, or I'll catch my death of the fever before the night is out! _

She mounted the stairs and clasped the rail with her clammy hand, and a tsunami of guilt crashed over Catherine's heart as she forced her legs and feet to carry her up to the small room where Kurt slept. Everything about what she was doing felt _wrong_: invading Kurt's privacy and borrowing his things without permission, for starters. Some coldly logical part of Catherine's mind knew that, based on what she'd seen of him so far, Kurt probably wouldn't care less about what she was doing; he seemed to be an easygoing, carefree sort who just bobbed along the river of life and let the current take him where it would, but even so…

Catherine fought not to grimace. _I __really __hope he doesn't get angry with me. I mean, he __is __a strange one, but nevertheless, he seems rather…_

The heat that rose in Catherine's cheeks had nothing to do with the fever that she'd moments ago feared catching. _He actually seems rather sweet._

The door to Kurt's room creaked open and Catherine's bare feet _shushed _softly on the carpet as she let herself inside. With a silent promise that she would touch nothing and open nothing that did not contain the clothes she sought, Catherine turned up the small gas lamp by Kurt's small bedside and held her cold, clammy hands up the flame's warm glow.

The bedroom was dark and windowless, the wall cracked in places and the carpet frayed around the corners. The lamp that Catherine huddled around provided the only source of light, and other than the small, twin-sized bed and set of squat dressers, the room was barren save for a small walk-in closet and a wicker chair. The bed itself looked enormously appealing to the weary Catherine, for although its sheets and comforters were mismatched in color and size, its layers of quilts and blankets were soft and cool. The bed was still made, as though Kurt had not slept in it for days, and Catherine wondered briefly if Kurt ever used the bed at all. It was a valid question, giving that there were no indentations or signs of occupation; even the pillowcase looked as though it had just been washed, dried and pressed.

_It's very plain, _Catherine admitted, _but Kurt seems like the type to go for comfort rather than style. Father…_

A large lump appeared in her throat, and tears sprang unbidden in her clear, blue eyes.

_Father was like that, too._

Grief renewed made Catherine's heart sink, and without pausing to consider the implications, she sank down to sit on the edge of Kurt's small, soft bed and at last let her sorrow burst from the dam she'd built around her soul.

The carpet became wet with the tears that flowed like raindrops down Catherine's now-red and puffy cheeks, and her shoulders hitched gently with quiet, racking sobs as she allowed her misery to engulf her in a black and merciless fist. With no one around to see or hear her, the young girl, who had until now shown such extraordinary resilience in the face of adversity and tragedy, finally made allowance for her grief as the pale, blue pall of mourning and sorrow settled about her curvaceous frame like a great set of heavy, iron chains. The sounds of the outside world grew dim as Catherine held her head in her hands, her brown hair falling in dark curls around her cheeks, and her entire body became so filled to the brim with sheer, unadulterated _anguish_ that Catherine half-wished for death to claim her so that her pain would be relieved. Never had she felt such a pure, soul-searing, mind-numbing sense of _loss_ that left a hollow, empty, gaping void where Catherine's heart should have dwelled, and this great black pit felt so large and so deep that it threatened to swallow her whole from the inside.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Catherine poured out all her grief and misery like rancid milk into a cracked and dingy cup, and she paid the watch on her wrist no heed as the minutes began to turn to hours. Catherine practically forgot that she was in the home of another, all thoughts of Kurt having been long abandoned as she stewed in the fetid swamp of her own sorrow, and as the dark, stormy night began to wane, the brave girl sobbed until there were no more tears to shed. This, truly, was the human existence in its most unfortunate, wretched and pitiful state, a sorrow so pure and heart-rending that no painter, poet or man of learning could hope to comprehend the way it ate a person from the inside out like a ravaging parasite.

Catherine didn't hear the front door swing open after she'd spent the better part of two or three hours wallowing in her grief, and neither did she hear the steady _tromp-tromp_ of footsteps as someone ascended the staircase, following the wet trail Catherine had left in her still-damp clothes. The original reason she'd come into Kurt's room in the first place had long been discarded, and if he had known of the situation beforehand, a very sodden, injured and haggard-looking Kurt Wagner would have thought no less of Catherine for it.

Right now, however, all he could manage was a look of pained perplexity until the sounds of Catherine's crying reached his ears. He stiffened and suddenly felt as though he were intruding, and is furry hand stopped only centimeters away from grasping the door to his room.

_I guess I shouldn't be surprised, _Kurt thought, his golden eyes sad. _She lost her parents, her home and everything she owned all in one night._

Again, he hesitated to enter. _Should I go in and try to make her feel better? What should I say? __Is __there anything I can say?_

_Maybe I should just leave her be. She might want to be left alone._

An agonized whimper made Kurt's eyes harden in determination. _Scratch that. __No one __should have to deal with something like this all by themselves, sweet cheeks._

The door's hinges made a soft creak as the injured Kurt limped his way across the floor, and Catherine glanced up in surprise and dismay as she frantically tried to rub away the tears that refused to stop flowing. She turned away, almost as if ashamed to have been caught in such a vulnerable state, but Kurt's index finger caught her under the chin and gently turned her head.

Despite his misgivings, Kurt really didn't need to say anything at all. His eyes, radiating compassion and sympathy, spoke more loudly and more clearly than any verbal utterance he could have devised.

_I'm here for you._

Catherine gazed back silently at him, and Kurt blushed furiously as she suddenly and quite without warning buried her head in his soft, velvety fur and began to sob afresh.

Kurt didn't push her away. However strong of will and spirit Catherine may have been, he was well aware that there was more than enough grief to go around, and so he let Catherine pour out her anguish into the silky blue hair of his injured shoulder while ignoring the lances of sharp pain that resulted from the pressure on his wound.

Painful though the injury undoubtedly was, Kurt realized that, in retrospect, his fortune wasn't that bad when compared to Catherine's recent run of luck. No, there would be another time to mend his physical hurts with bandages and ointments, but right now it was Catherine's wounded spirit that needed to be dressed with the simple medicine of human compassion.

And so Kurt wept with her.

A/N: So sad…*sniff* But will Kurt and Catherine manage to make Capone pay for his crimes? Will they ever be able to bring the crime lord down? Find out in coming chapters! And PLEASE REVIEW! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW!

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	8. Chapter 8

The Witness

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 8: Declaration of War

Gray-bruised and dark though it was, dawn proved to be a most welcome sight to both Catherine and the PI at whose residence she was staying. The banks of dark, rolling thunderclouds that for the past several days had blackened the skies now receded into a solid mass of steel-colored, low-lying mist that brushed the top of Chicago's cityscape.

Catherine Pryde's eyelids fluttered open as she lay afloat in her dress on Kurt's bed, and she sat up groggily, rubbing sleep from her eyes as her slightly-mussed brown hair cascaded down her shoulders in a brown wavy of shining locks.

She pushed the blanket aside before realizing, with a start, that she had not pulled it over her body before she'd finally come to terms with her grief the previous evening. She had fallen into a deep, dark and dreamless slumber after the tears had finally stopped, and she had been so tired that she hadn't realized that she'd fallen to sleep before Kurt had even left the bedroom. It was Kurt, Catherine concluded, that had pulled the thick quilt over her sleeping form, and her mouth split into a small smile as she shyly smoothed a lock of hair away from her eyes.

Her mouth opened wide with a cavernous yawn, and Catherine gave a sound reminiscent of a small kitten as she arched her back lazily. Shaking her head to clear away any remnants of grogginess, Catherine tried her best to make herself presentable and headed downstairs.

The loud pounding of her bare feet caused Kurt to look up from the small, wood-burning stove that he had been hunched over. A hot skillet lay in his palm, and Kurt's customary trenchcoat had been replaced with a comical-looking apron that said, "Kiss the Cook" in large, red letters.

Though he would hardly admit it, Kurt had come to look at Catherine a bit differently after their narrow escape from Capone's clutches. Privately, he admired her strong sense of right and wrong, her formidable willpower and her utter determination to avenge the deaths of her parents. Gradually, he had come to notice how well-toned and curvaceous her figure was, how her hair reflected the lantern's glow, and how the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled-

-Kurt blinked and gave himself a mental slap before his mind ran away with him. _I need to get out more, _he told himself dryly, _if I start looking to my clients for companionship, I must __really __be hitting rock bottom._

"It's about time you woke up," Kurt disguised his discomfort by keeping a mocking edge in his tone. "I was about to go up there and throw a pan of water on you. The day's wasting, and we have work to do. Hope you like sausage and eggs," he added, gesturing toward the sizzling frying pan. "I made breakfast."

Catherine remembered the _sauerbraten_ she'd eaten the night before, but her appetite was forgotten as she glanced at Kurt's injured shoulder. The injury still bore the filthy, hastily-wrapped and bloodstained strip of cloth, and from the stiff way that he moved his arm, Catherine could tell that he was in great pain.

"You're injured," she stated, pointing to the wound. "Honestly, Kurt, did you treat that at _all _last night?"

"What, this?" Kurt seemed to notice his injury for the first time. "I meant to, but I was, uh, distracted."

Catherine walked over to him and took the skillet from his hands, but Kurt tightened his grip and refused to let go.

"Sit down," Catherine told him commandingly. "If you don't change those bandages, you could catch gangrene."

"Oh, please-" Kurt snorted. "I'm not some weak-"

"_Sit,_" Catherine repeated in a more forceful tone.

"Make me," Kurt poked his tongue out childishly at her.

Catherine promptly seized a nearby cooking ladle and whacked Kurt squarely on the head with it.

The mutant yelped in surprise and pain. "Get that out of my face, dammit!"

"It's not in your face, it's in my hand," Catherine told him sweetly.

"Get what's in your hand out of my face," Kurt retorted, pulling up a chair and taking a seat with an exasperated look. "And there was no call to hit me."

"I believe there was," Catherine grinned. "You were being-"

"Tough? Stoic? Manly?" Kurt puffed out his chest playfully.

"I was going to say _chauvinistic pig_, but that works too."

Kurt glared at her. "You're cold, you know that?"

"Shut up and let me change your bandages, would you? Honestly…." She muttered under her breath, rummaging carelessly through Kurt's cabinets in search of linen strips. Once the large roll of bandages had been extracted, Catherine took a seat by Kurt's side with a small container of fresh water and rubbing alcohol close at hand.

"This might sting a bit," she warned him, dipping a rag into the strong-smelling solution. "Just grin and bear it, okay?"

Kurt bit his lip so hard that it almost bled as Catherine peeled the sticky, blood-stained rags off of his fur, and when the wet rag began dabbing on his wound, he only just managed to refrain from flinching away and uttering an agonized hiss. His eyes watered with stinging tears, but Catherine had to give him credit; he never made a single sound.

"So I was thinking," Kurt said through clenched teeth.

"About what?" Catherine glanced at him.

"Our next move, of course," he replied, as though it were obvious. "You still want Capone, right?"

"Yes."

"Then we need a new plan of action," Kurt closed his eyes briefly as another shockwave of sharp pain arced across his chest. "Last night went according to plan, but we can't just lay around and wait for Capone to find us."

"What do you _mean _it went 'according to plan'?" Catherine demanded. "He tried to _kill_ you!"

"True, but our basic objective was accomplished," Kurt reminded her, pointing to the briefcase of money that lay in the corner. "Capone is convinced that you're dead, and the money that he gave me for your head will help, too."

"But now he's after _both _of us," Catherine pointed out. "And Capone wants that money back."

"It doesn't matter," Kurt grinned. "The cash itself is as good as spent."

"Spent?" Catherine had no idea where Kurt was going with this. "On what?"

"Think of it this way," Kurt explained. "We're David, and Capone's Goliath. We're gonna need a hell of a lot more than a slingstone to bring him down. Capone has resources at his disposal, spies and listeners that act as his eyes and ears, and enough enforcers to form a private army. We're outnumbered and outgunned, Catherine. We can't bring down Capone without help from outside."

"Didn't you say that there's no one left in Chicago who isn't in Capone's pocket?"

"That's true, for the most part," Kurt nodded in agreement. "But I can think of a few who would be willing to help us, if only to serve their own interests. We _need _allies, Catherine. We can't do this all by ourselves, and _I _can't fight a one-man war. Manpower, connections, resources…we must have all of these things before we take the fight to _them."_

"Who did you have in mind, then?" Catherine asked suspiciously.

"I have an old friend in the Chicago PD who I think we can trust," Kurt said after a moment's thought. "He and I aren't on the best of terms, but he's a good man and he'll work with us for the right price. The second one, however…." He cleared his throat. "Let's just say that he'll be a bit more difficult to approach."

Catherine turned her seat around and leant over its back. "Do tell."

"There's only one person in Chicago who stands a chance against Scarface Al Capone," Kurt sighed. "Capone's grip on the city isn't as concrete as he likes everyone to think. There is still opposition from the other criminal syndicates, perhaps strength enough to challenge him if they united against a common foe. And if anyone can bring the other organizations together, it's Bugs Moran, Capone's sworn enemy."

Catherine stood up with an incredulous look on her face. "Are you insane?" she yelled. "Bugs Moran and those other men are no better than Capone himself! They are loyal to nothing and no one but money and their own interests! They don't care about the problems of others! What makes you think they'll go out of their way to help us? What makes you think an audience with Moran will go any better than your little meet-up with Capone the other night? _You almost __died__ last time! This time around, you may not be so lucky!"_

"I can understand why you'd be opposed to the idea," Kurt held up a hand to stall Catherine's tirade, "but hear me out. Capone and Moran have been fighting for Chicago for years. Capone eventually won out, but although Moran's power was weakened in the gang war, it wasn't broken. If I know his type, and I do, then he'll have spent this time rebuilding his organization, marshalling his forces and preparing to take on Capone again, this time for keeps. What Moran and the other crime lords want is to overthrow Capone and carve up the city for themselves; if we can offer them a way to do that, then they'll have no qualms about helping us. Moran has the things we need to wage our war: the money, resources, connections and manpower that serve his purpose will be made to serve ours…if we can persuade him to do it. Trust me, if anyone stands a chance of taking down Scarface, it's Moran, and if we get _him _on board, then the other crime families will follow his example because they want to be on the winning side."

Catherine stared, taken completely aback by Kurt's cunning. "You had this planned all along." It was a statement rather than a question.

"Wheels within wheels, my dear," Kurt winked roguishly.

"When will you go to see him?"

"As soon as the heat from Capone dies down," Kurt's tone was firm. "Which, knowing _him,_ won't be for a few weeks at the very least. Until then, we lay low. Stay away from the windows and doors; I'll have food delivered to us. We _cannot _afford to let ourselves be seen outside right now.

"How do we know Moran won't hand me over for the price on my head?"

"If there's one thing Moran has in abundance, it's spite," Kurt laughed. "He hates Capone so much that he'd keep him from having you just to spit in his eye, which is _exactly _what I'm counting on."

"And Capone won't find us, right?" Catherine tried to reassure herself.

"Oh, ye of little faith," Kurt grinned, picking up his telephone and dialing a number. "Fret not, Catherine. I've taken care of _everything…_"

_Meanwhile…_

As Kurt outlined his master scheme to Catherine, Al Capone was already pressing his advantage. He had risen early that morning, clad in an impeccable Italian suit that cost more than some men made in an entire year, and with a thick cigar champed between his teeth and a white hat upon his head, the gangster exited the elaborate, five-star hotel that he'd bought as his private residence and walked outside to the sputtering car that awaited him. Two of his men stood by to open the passenger side door as their boss entered the shiny black vehicle, and Capone spared a cold glance at a peculiarly-shaped briefcase that lay at his feet.

"Drive," he told his henchman shortly, mopping his forehead with a scarlet hankerchief. "And pray that the tip we received is accurate."

"It's accurate, boss," the thug at the wheel replied as he stamped on the accelerator. "The tipster said that he saw Wagner enter the building only an hour after the shindig last night. That's probably where he lives, so shouldn't we strike early to take 'im by surprise?"

"I'm well aware of the details, my simple-minded friend," Capone smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "_Your _job, however, does not involve talking. _Your _job is to do whatever I say and not ask questions."

"Right you are, boss," the enforcer bowed his head, suitably chastised, as he turned the corner and increased the vehicle's speed. "You want I should go in and get your money first?"

"No," Capone shook his head. "The money is of little consequence. The purpose of this little outing is to remind those who reside in this city that no one defies me and lives to brag about it. It matters not that Wagner stole from me; it's the principle of the thing."

"Wagner'll have to wake up earlier t'pull the wool over _your _eyes, boss," the thug agreed.

"Spare me your efforts to gain favor," Capone sighed. "Otherwise I might decide that I no longer have any need of you."

The man turned pale and promptly shut his mouth, and the rest of the drive continued in stony silence until the driver pulled the vehicle by the curbside in front of a worn-down tenement residence. The car slowed to almost a craw as Capone reached for the briefcase, and as he opened it and slid a drum into the Tommy gun that it contained, his expression was so calm that he might as well have been discussing the weather.

It happened in a flash. Capone rolled the window down, stuck the barrel of his firearm outside, and squeezed the trigger. The Tommy instantly began spitting bullets at a round a second as spent shell cartridges piled up on the sidewalk with a rapid _clink-clinking _sound, and the air was filled with the horrible cacophony of shattering glass as Capone thoroughly hosed down Kurt's place of residence. The doors, walls and windows were so riddled with holes that they looked like Swiss cheese, but the mobster kept firing until the cartridge was completely empty before he ceased his relentless assault and took a deep pull on his cigar.

Capone blew a perfect smoke ring into the air and opened the car door.

"Where are you going, boss?" his man asked him curiously.

"To make sure that Wagner does not escape me this time," Capone smiled calmly. "Stay here and keep the car running. I'll be back shortly."

Capone shoved his hands in his pockets and approached Kurt's front door, but the door itself was so smashed and ruined that it fell off its hinges as he tried to open it. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder as Capone stepped inside, expecting to see the ruins of Kurt's apartment-

-But there was nothing. The entire complex looked as though no one had lived there for years; dust covered the floor in a thick that smudged Capone's carefully shined shoes, and a few pieces of canvas-covered furniture were all that remained. The rooms were otherwise barren, and Capone was about to call for his enforcer when a strange sound reached his ears.

_Tickticktickticktickticktick…_

Capone's eyes narrowed, and, curious, he began to follow the sound. "What in the world…?"

_Tickticktickticktickticktick…_

The gangster slapped a fresh drum into his weapon and moved with caution into the abandoned sitting room that he'd deduced as the source of the noise, but his bewildered expression turned to surprise and outrage as he beheld a hastily scrawled note that had been pinned to an ancient couch by what was unmistakably one of Kurt's throwing knives.

Its message was simple:

YOUR NUMBER IS LISTED IN THE PHONE BOOK, YOU DUMBASS. YOU MIGHT WANT TO SCREEN YOUR TIPSTERS MORE CAREFULLY.

-KURT WAGNER

"So that's it?" Capone sneered, leaning over to see what lay on the sofa's cushions. "Does he seek to taunt me? As if I could be riled by such a pathetic-"

The sardonic sneer dropped to the floor and shattered into a million pieces as Capone beheld, with horrified comprehension, the parting gift that Kurt had left for him.

The "gift" took the form of nothing less than half a stick of dynamite, which, according to the small timer that was attached to it, had been set to explode in less than ten seconds.

For the first time in years, Al Capone turned on his heel and _ran _as though the Devil himself was nipping at his heels. He only just made it through the door when the timer went off with a comedic-sounding _ding, _and a single spark to the dynamite's explosive core caused it to erupt in a white-hot explosion that took the form of a massive, roiling fireball that virtually disintegrated the entire structure in less than a second. Pieces of shattered brick and other flaming debris were hurled skyward, trailing smoke and fire as the bomb went off with a deep, throat, bass-toned _roar _that one felt rather than heard, and rivulets of blood coursed down Capone's earlobes as his eardrums were damaged by the sound. The enormous, swirling, incandescent fireball sent out a shockwave that knocked Capone back onto the asphalt as he struggled to stand, and his beloved hat was virtually _shredded _as it was blown off his balding head. Capone's car, along with its unfortunate operator, were caught squarely in the blast radius and virtually incinerated into a twisted hunk of metal slag, and Capone himself barely escaped immolation because the shockwave knocked him off his feet and threw him clear into the air.

The echoes of the explosion were still ringing in Capone's ears as he got groggily to his feet, and his body was bruised and covered with lacerations that dripped blood onto the sidewalk. Sirens began wailing in the distance, and as Capone wiped blood from the corner of his mouth, his eyes narrowed with sheer malice.

"Very well then, Mr. Wagner. Let the games..._begin_."

A/N: HELL, YEAH! Talk about being OWNED! But will Kurt's plan work? Will he get Bugs Moran on board with his scheme? And who is his old acquaintance in the Chicago PD? Find out in coming chapters! And PLEASE REVIEW! Seriously, I've only been getting a handful of reviews for each chapter, and I want to hear what YOU have to say! YOUR OPINION COUNTS, so if you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW! ^^

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	9. Chapter 9

The Witness

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 9: Friends in Low Places

The cold, cloudy morning had not yet given way to mid-afternoon as Kurt Wagner, clad in a fresh trenchcoat and dark fedora, negotiated his way down the crowded street with his hat pulled down low over his head. He kept his eyes down, avoiding passersby in an attempt to ward off unwanted attention, and his shoes splashed in the puddles that lingered by the road as Kurt's feet moved from memory.

He could have walked this path blindfolded. Kurt had gone this way enough times to know the route by heart.

The mutant pulled a pocket watch from the folds of his coat and flipped it open, and his pace quickened after a cursory look at the ticking hands of the clock. The timing for this little outing had to be precise; if he were only a moment late, the man that Kurt had come out to see would be gone by the time he got to where he was supposed to be.

A small grin played about Kurt's lips as he rounded the corner on the damp and wet street where the Chicago Police Department headquarters had been relocated after a fire some years back. The large, five-story and intimidating building towered over the other structures that sat along the curb; rather than soaring to the sky, however, the large office complex had been built so that it glowered down at the pedestrians below it. This, of course, was meant to send a subliminal message of the police department's power and thereby deter any ne'er-do-wells or petty thugs that might have gotten it into their head to go making mischief.

Of course, any semblance of legality had been discarded by the wayside with the rise of Al Capone. It was common knowledge that there were few, if any, police officers left who weren't on the gangster's payroll, and those who had refused Capone's generosity were keeping their mouths shut out of concern not only for _their _well-being, but also for that of their families and loved ones.

Fortunately, the "old acquaintance" that Kurt had mentioned to Catherine was one of these select few who'd had the bravery to resist Capone's influence, and it was this very man that Kurt had turned out to see on this gray, wet and dreary morning. He would have brought Catherine along with him, of course, but seeing as how everyone else thought her dead it wouldn't have been a good idea to parade her out in public for all to see. The only way to keep Capone from finding out that his target still had breath in her body was to keep Catherine out of sight, and so Kurt had reluctantly (over Catherine's vocal and vehement protestations) told his friend to stay behind and keep an eye on the office while he was away.

Kurt smiled at the memory. _She's so cute when she's angry, _he thought to himself, before giving himself a mental slap on the cheek for letting his mind wander.

_Don't even go there, Wagner, _Kurt added viciously. _She's so far out of my league that I can't even see her with binoculars. Catherine's a client and nothing more, and the only reason I'm even thinking about her when I'm on the job is because I've got a beautiful woman living under my roof after years of living alone in that dingy little apartment. I'm just…__appreciating __her company, that's all._

_I need to focus. I have a job to do._

_But she'll be waiting when you get back__, _a nasty little doubting voice hissed in the back of Kurt's head. _She'll be there when you walk in the door to help you take off your coat and ask you how your day was before you go into the kitchen and help her fix dinner. You're practically married already, for Pete's sake! What the hell is wrong with you? A gorgeous girl practically falls into your lap and you're just going to let her go? You really are pathetic, you know that? You're a coward, a shut-in who spends his days tracking down lost pets for petty change and can't even go to the grocer unless his face is covered!_

Something approaching despair made Kurt's heart clench. _I am _not_ infatuated with Catherine, _he told himself firmly.

_Pull the other leg. It plays "Jingle Bells."_

_She's a business partner. Nothing more._

_Who do you think you're fooling?_

Kurt swallowed nervously. _Even if I __did__ like her, which I don't…_

_The first stage is denial, you know._

_Even if I __did __like her, what do I have to offer? _Kurt's shoulders sagged with despair. _I can barely support myself, let alone anyone else. She deserves better than that._

_She deserves better…than __me__._

Kurt then became suddenly cognizant of the fact that he'd literally been carrying on a conversation with himself. _I really have to stop taking a shot of brandy right before bed, _he thought, smiling drily. _Either that, or schedule an appointment with a psychiatrist._

The mutant forced all thoughts of Catherine out of his head and stuffed them in a dark, quiet corner of his brain. Now was not the time for dwelling on such things. Kurt, after all, had come here for a reason, and he had a job to do.

His footsteps paused just outside the door to the police station, but instead of entering, Kurt leaned casually against the doorframe, pulled his hat low over his eyes...and waited.

The pocket-watch flipped open again in Kurt's palm, and a mischievous, tiny smile hovered around Kurt's mouth as the door opened amidst the smell of bathtub gin, aftershave and body odor. It was a smell that gave away its owner immediately; Kurt could always smell the man before he saw him.

"Right on time," the PI muttered, snapping his watch shut and taking off after the short, squat and slouching man that had taken off down the street. He was short in comparison to his bulk, topping less than five feet with stocky arms and legs upon which grew a copious amount of body hair. His face was creased in a permanent scowl, and he glowered at anyone who got too close; such tactics made the other pedestrians give him a wide berth.

Kurt began to walk a little faster. He did not want to lose sight of his quarry, and as the figure drew closer he reached out a hand to tap him on the shoulder-

-The other man moved so fast that by the time Kurt's brain had registered the movement he had already been hurled into an alley and heaved against a wall as a meaty fist closed around his throat. The mutant's windpipe threatened to shatter into a million pieces as he clawed at the iron grip that threatened to choke him, and Kurt had to suck in a breath to get enough air in his lungs to speak.

"Nice to see you too, Logan," he gasped, turning an even deeper bluish shade than normal as oxygen deprivation made spots dance in front of his eyes.

Officer Logan Howlett of the Chicago Police Department blinked at the sound of Kurt's voice, as though only just realizing he was there, and although his grip slackened, he did not let his captive go. A thick cigar that protruded out of the side of Logan's mouth bobbed up and down as he growled back, "Wagner, you navy-colored son-of-a-bitch. You're lucky I don't break you in half."

"You missed me," Kurt clarified.

"Like the _plague,_" Logan shot back. "Whaddaya want? I'm busy."

"What, an old friend can't stop by to say hello?" Kurt asked innocently, dusting himself off. "I just thought you might want to join me for a drink, that's all. There's a nice place just around the corner where we can catch up on old times."

Logan's eyes narrowed. "You want somethin' from me, doncha? And don't try lying again, either."

"You know me all too well," Kurt admitted, dropping his voice. "But it's not something that we can talk about here."

"How much horse shit have you gotten yerself into this time?"

"More than enough to go around," the PI nodded. "I need your help, Logan. Not for _my _sake, but for someone else's."

Logan's hard features rippled for a moment.

"Drinks are on you," he grunted at last.

"You're going to bleed me dry," Kurt retorted, falling step with him.

"An' yer gonna drive _me _into my grave one of these days, with all the trouble you keep gittin' yerself into," Logan growled back as the duo crossed the busy street. A Model T screeched to a halt as its irate driver hurled obscenities at him, and Logan held up his middle finger in a silent gesture of contempt.

The speakeasy that Kurt had referred to was one that the PI had visited several times before. It was normally quiet during the late morning hours since most working men were busy at their place of employment, so there was little chance of Kurt being overheard or eavesdropped upon. Indeed, the illegal establishment was practically deserted as Kurt swung the door open; the only other patron was an elderly woman who had fallen asleep midway through her meal.

"What can I get you, gentlemen?" the bartender called out cheerfully.

"Beer," Logan grunted, cracking his knuckles for emphasis. "And God help you if it ain't cold."

"Vodka martini," Kurt nodded politely, making sure not to lift his head. "Shaken, not stirred."

"Coming right up."

Kurt slid into a booth in the far corner, and Logan shook his head as he took a seat opposite him.

"I must really be on the downturn if yer the only person I kin drink with these days," he muttered sullenly.

"Oh, you're grateful for my company, admit it," Kurt replied sweetly. "Otherwise you'd be eating lunch at your desk and typing up expense reports."

Logan glared at him. "Have I ever told you that yer an insufferable bastard?"

"It's all part of my charm," Kurt winked.

"Don't make me punch you in public," Logan snorted as the barkeep placed a laden tray in front of them. Disdaining the bottle opener, Logan gripped the beer bottle's cap and wrenched it off with a sharp, twisting motion. The action took so little effort that Logan may as well have been swatting a fly.

"So what's all this about, then?" he asked. "Give it to me straight, Wagner."

"I'm going after Capone," Kurt said, whereupon Logan immediately choked on his beer. "And I need your help to do it."

Logan's eyes widened as he wiped his mouth. "Tell me you didn't just say that."

"I _did _just say that," Kurt grinned.

"It's a fool's errand," Logan's tone was flat. "You know damn well what Capone's capable of, Wagner. Whatever possessed you to git it into yer head that you need to put the squeeze on Scarface, anyway? No one touches Capone! No one's ever even _tried!_"

"I'm doing it on behalf of one of my clients," Kurt's eyes narrowed. "A young woman, who saw her parents murdered before her eyes on Capone's orders. You may have heard the name of Pryde bandied about your office, Logan."

"The DA that turned up dead?" Logan spat on the floor in distaste. "Yeah, I heard about that. Messy business. Hardly enough left of him to scrape up in a Ziploc. It don't surprise me that Capone's behind it."

"No one should be able to do that and get away clean," Kurt said fiercely. "Capone floods the streets with crime and booze and everyone just stands by and lets it happen! You _know _this city's going to hell in a handbag because of him and his organization, and I've been hired to do something about it."

"Hired? By who?"

Kurt checked to make sure no one was looking his way and leaned in close so he could whisper in Logan's ear. "Catherine Pryde," he said softly. "The DA's daughter."

"Heard _she _was dead, too," Logan replied, keeping his voice down as well.

"You heard wrong," Kurt murmured. "I helped her fake her death so that Capone would drop his guard."

"Aren't you concerned that Capone will come after you?"

"He tried, but I had a fake address listed. The only thing Capone found at the empty building I lured him to was half a stick of dynamite."

"The big explosion yesterday? I had a suspicion you had something to do with that," Logan smirked. "So why come to me?"

"Because you're one of the handful of cops who still cares about this city and the people in it," Kurt looked him in the eye. "And you work with a lot of guys who moonlight as Capone's enforcers. I need you to be my eyes and ears in the Chicago PD, so that I can gather intel before I take the fight to Scarface."

"You're declaring war on Capone." Logan stared. "He's got you outgunned, outmanned and outmaneuvered, and you still think you can succeed where everyone else has failed? Are you really so convinced that you can bring him down?"

"Yup," Kurt never hesitated with his answer as he stuck out his hand. "Are you gonna help me?"

Logan's massive fingers enveloped Kurt's completely. "Damn right I am."

A/N: Oooh, now things are getting interesting! But what will happen when Kurt goes to see Bugs Moran? Will Logan be able to help our heroes? And what vile plot does Capone have forming? Find out in coming chapters! And PLEASE REVIEW! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW! ^^

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque

P.S. To all those who wrote in expressing hopes that Wolverine would be in this story: You're welcome. ^^


	10. Chapter 10

The Witness

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 10: Allies and Enemies

_Prologue_

_Moments ago…_

Logan casually tossed his empty beer bottle by the curbside as he and Kurt exited the small brewery where they'd taken their illicit refreshment, and the dark brown-colored glass shattered to pieces as it hit the concrete with far more force than was necessary.

Kurt gave him a jaundiced look. "A cop that litters? Now I've seen everything. What are you going to do, give _yourself _a fine?"

Logan pulled his jacket tighter around his frame as a gust of cold wind seemed to slice him to the bone like a steel razor. "Shut up."

"What's the magic word?" Kurt asked in a ridiculous-sounding singsong voice.

"Zip yer yap or I'll kick your ass so hard you'll have to bend over to sneeze."

"And _that, _Logan, is why we make such a good team," Kurt replied lightly. "Your people skills are widely regarded as without peer in our fair city."

Logan gritted his teeth. "One more time. Make a smart-ass comment _one more time_ and see what happens, fur-ball."

"You have no sense of humor," Kurt shot back. "I've met _rocks _that smile more than you, Logan."

"An' you have no goddamn _sense_ at all, Wagner. Especially with this half-assed cockamamie scheme you've talked me into."

"Oh, admit it. You were getting bored up at Chicago PD headquarters, filling out paperwork day in and day out since the higher-ups relegated you to a desk job. I even thought you'd welcome the reprieve."

"Speakin' of which, we need to swing by my place and pick up a few things," Logan said. "Ain't no way on God's green earth I'm going up against Capone without some insurance. Plus, I need me some street clothes; walkin' round with a cop all day's bound t'draw attention."

"You're right, of course," Kurt nodded, turning the corner as he and his friend rounded the street where Logan's sad-looking tenement building resided. "But dare I ask what kind of 'insurance' you're referring to?"

Logan fished a set of keys out of his pocket as he led him up the fire escape, and the door to his small apartment creaked loudly in protest as he flicked on the light inside the hallway. Kurt hastened to catch up with him, his feet pounding on the metal steps that wound along one side of the slum, and the wrought-iron stairwell creaked under his weight before Logan snatched him and yanked him indoors.

Kurt's eyes widened at the sight that greeted his inquiring gaze. The inside of Logan's residence made the Tower of London look like a cheap museum gift shop. Weapons of every size and description lay mounted on stands and hung on the walls, and they were so great in number that not a single shelf or cabinet remained that did not sport some sort of morbid display on top of it. The cracked and peeling paint was barely visible under the profusion of weapons that coated the walls, and, true to Logan's disdain for organization, his private and extensive arms collection was laid out with no preference or pattern in mind. Cavalry sabers, Japanese _katanas _and European broadswords jostled for space with Colt revolvers, semi-automatic handguns, and repeating rifles that bore signs of obvious use. Hand grenades of every shape and size lay within arm's reach, and from the way Logan's fingers gingerly grasped them, Kurt had no doubt that the weapons were still functional.

Kurt's friend had an almost loving expression on his face as his hand gravitated toward a particularly battered and battle-worn piece of hardware; the semi-automatic Browning pistol seemed made for his hand. A clip of seven rounds made an ominous _ch-chak _as Logan slid it into place in a slot that had been fashioned in the pistol's butt, and Logan stuffed a ball-bearing cosh into one of his pockets before he handed Kurt a firearm of his own.

"To replace the one Capone's thugs took away when you almost got yourself killed," Logan explained. "And God help you if lose that one; she's seen me through a dozen firefights already."

"What about that one there?" Kurt nodded at Logan's weapon.

"_Three _dozen firefights and counting," Logan said proudly, stroking his gun as though it were a beloved pet while he slid several more clips into his pockets. "Here, take this too," he added, handing Kurt a long-bladed knife.

"I have my own weapons of choice," Kurt balanced on of his stilettos on his fingertip. "I dislike guns, anyway. There's no art to firing them."

"Take the damn gun, Wagner, and be grateful for it," Logan growled.

"Fine, fine," Kurt rolled his eyes. "But I doubt I'll use it. Are you ready now, or do you need to bring a flamethrower as well?"

"Flamethrower's too bulky," Logan shook his head, missing the joke entirely. "There's no way I could conceal it. Nice idea, though. I oughta get me one."

Kurt slid the gun Logan had handed him through a specially made loop on his belt, but his horrified stare did not escape Logan's notice.

"What, can't a man have a hobby?" Logan grunted. "Some guys build model ships, I collect weapons. Best be on our way again, afore Capone's stooges find out we're here."

"Good idea," Kurt nodded. "After all, where we're going, time is of the essence."

"Speakin' of which, where _are _we goin'?" Logan asked. "Not to see Capone again, surely?"

"Nope," Kurt's smile was that of a hungry lion. "We're going to see his chief competitor: a certain Bugs Moran, head of Chicago's Irish mob and Capone's sworn enemy. He and the Italian gangsters have been fighting it out for years."

"And you're betting that his hatred of Capone will outweigh his temptation t'hand in yer girlfriend for Scarface's blood money," Logan added, nodding thoughtfully. "You might actually be on to somethin' there; Moran might be willin' t'help us, if he knew that doin' so would bring about Capone's downfall. It's so far-fetched and risky that it just might work."

"What can I say? I'm a people person," Kurt replied cheerfully. "You've got a car, I hope? Moran's all the way on the other side of town, you know."

Logan took a set of keys from a nearby hook. "If she gets so much as a scratch from all o'this, it's comin' outta yer hide. Are we takin' yer girlfriend with us?" he added. "Seems t'me that she'd wanna be in on all o' this since it's _her _life that Capone wants."

"I suppose," Kurt sighed. "Frankly, she'd come along whether I asked her to or not, and it'd be better if I kept her where I can keep an eye on her. I feel…_uncomfortable,_ leaving her at my place by herself. And she's not my girlfriend, by the way; she's just a client."

"Keep tellin' yerself that. Maybe if you repeat it often enough you might just begin t'believe it," Logan snorted, leading Kurt back down to the street where his vehicle lay motionless.

Kurt slid into the passenger's side, his face lighting up with pleasure as he sank into the seat. "What is this? Corinthian leather?"

"Would you shut up and let me drive?" Logan growled, shoving the key into the ignition with far more force than was necessary and turning the engine on. Strong-smelling exhaust sputtered out of the Ford's tailpipe as the vehicle's motor sputtered to life, and moments later the two men were lost in the ongoing flow of traffic, the cobblestones clattering under the car's chassis as they swerved around the corner and disappeared…

_Now…_

Catherine Pryde almost jumped out of her skin at the sound of a car pulling into the curb outside Kurt's office. Her first instinct was to run, as she automatically assumed that Capone's men had learned she was alive and tracked her down, and she rummaged frantically in the drawer of Kurt's desk in a desperate effort to find something with which to defend herself.

Outside, the car's engine switched off, and Catherine could clearly hear voices walking up the sidewalk as the blood turned to ice in her veins-

-"Keep the car running and try not to look to suspicious," Kurt was saying. "I'll be back out in a minute. If you see anyone who looks like a threat, drop him."

There was the unmistakable _click _of a firearm's safety being flicked off. "I agreed t'work _with _you, not _for _you, Wagner" a second voice, low and laden with menace, growled in a guttural tone. "Don't go thinkin' you kin give _me _orders like one of Capone's thugs."

"Your communication skills are as top-notch as ever," Kurt replied dryly as he jimmied the lock of his door open.

Catherine breathed long, slow sigh of relief. She had feared at first that Kurt had betrayed her to the dangerous-sounding fellow who was standing watch outside, but now she felt foolish and extremely ashamed for ever doubting his motives. Kurt, it seemed, had recruited some extra help, and given their situation Catherine wasn't about to complain about it.

_I just hope that this other fellow isn't tempted by the reward Capone has put on my head, _she thought grimly. _Few are those who can resist the lure of __that __kind of money._

"Catherine?" Kurt poked his head around the doorjamb. "You there? It's me."

"About time you got back," Catherine replied, but there was no anger in her words. "I was beginning to grow bored.

"You may experience many things in my company, but I assure you that boredom will not be among them," Kurt winked.

"Who were you talking to outside?"

"A friend," Kurt assured her. "He's not the most agreeable or friendly of sorts, but don't worry; we can trust him. He and I go way back, and he likes Capone even less than you do, if that's possible."

"We're going to see Moran," Catherine stated.

"Yes, we are," Kurt nodded. "And for your sake more than mine, _please _let me and Logan do the talking. Moran was as powerful as Capone a few years back, and like Capone, he's not the sort you cross lightly."

"Is he that terrifying?" Catherine snorted.

"He's every bit as devious, calculating and cold as Capone ever was," Kurt replied grimly. "But added to that, Moran is infamous for his fiery temper. He's well known for shooting the bearers of bad news, Catherine, and that anger management problem of his makes him unpredictable. You never know what's going to set him off, and in that way he's even more dangerous than Scarface himself. That's why he's called 'Bugs' Moran," Kurt added. "In gangster slang, 'Bugs' means 'crazy.'"

Catherine shuddered. "And you think he's going to help us?" she asked.

Kurt's tone was one of utter certainty as he held the door open for her. "Absolutely."

Logan, still in the driver's seat, did a double-take as Catherine slid behind him. "Damn, Wagner," he said in a tone of grudging admiration. "How'd ya get a girl like _that _to look at _you_?"

"She's not my girlfriend, Logan," Kurt clenched his teeth, blushing furiously.

Catherine's cheeks turned a deep shade of puce. "You assume far too much," she told Logan irately. "Is that what you think? That I'm easy?"

"If ya are, I call dibs," Logan grinned. "Providin', of course, that Wagner's had 'is fill."

_SLAP!_

Logan winced as Catherine's palm stung the flesh of his cheek, and Kurt was almost afraid that he would shoot her where she sat. No one had ever struck Logan and lived for more than a few seconds, after all.

"Ouch," Logan said simply.

"You had it coming," Catherine was unapologetic.

"What can I say?" Kurt shrugged. "When she's right, she's right. Catherine Pryde, meet Logan Howlett of the Chicago Police Department. He and I have worked together on cases in the past, and he's agreed to help us."

"Are you a friend of Kurt's, Logan?" Catherine inquired.

The grizzled cop's grin was dry. "I think _friend _might be too strong a term, lady. Of course, in _your _case it might be too _weak, _if you get my meaning."

Catherine blushed, stung by not only by Logan's grumpiness but also by his reference to her growing feelings for Kurt, and her cheeks turned an even deeper shade of crimson when he patted her on the arm reassuringly.

"Don't mind him. That's just Logan's way of saying hello," Kurt clarified.

"One more crack like _that_, blue-boy, and you're gonna receive flying lessons when I heave you through the windshield," Logan snarled.

"Blue-boy?" Catherine made no attempt to smother her laughter. "Oh, _that's _rich."

Kurt sniffed huffily, but did not reply. After all, Logan Howlett was the only person he'd ever met whose talent for cutting witticisms rivaled his own, and Kurt was not in the habit of picking fights that he knew he could not win.

A/N: Hey, guys! Looks like our heroes are off to meet Capone's arch-nemesis! But what reception will they receive? And what counterstrike is Capone preparing (Yes, there ARE more action scenes on the way!)? Find out in coming chapters of "The Witness"! And please, PLEASE REVIEW! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions on how I can make this story better, LET ME KNOW! ^^

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	11. Chapter 11

The Witness

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 11: Bugs Moran

Logan's car purred like a massive kitten as he steered it beneath the stark, harsh yellow glow of the streetlights. Though it was mid-morning, the weather was so dark that it looked as though it were late in the evening, and though this made navigating the city streets difficult, Kurt was not about to complain. The darkness gave him an advantage: it allowed him to hide his unique facial features with considerable ease.

Catherine, seated next to him, looked as anxious as Kurt appeared strangely calm. While her friend lay slumped against the door with his hat pulled over his eyes and his chest rising and falling in time with his breathing, she clenched her hands into fists and held them in her lap so as to maintain control over herself.

Logan's offhand remark about her relationship with Kurt had cut more deeply than he had realized, though he had no way of knowing it and Catherine had no intention of telling him. It was true, she realized belatedly, that after their shared near-death experience at the hands of Capone and the kindness Kurt had shown her when she'd grieved for her parents, her relationship with Kurt was starting to go deeper than that which is shared among those who are only friends.

Catherine glanced out of the corner of her eye at her dozing companion, watching the way his breath ruffled the fur on his chest. She suddenly itched to run her fingers through it; Kurt's velvety fur was so soft that he reminded her of a cushy teddy bear whenever she touched him. It would be a sad parting, Catherine knew, when she and Kurt had finished with Capone and had to go their separate ways.

Her heart clenched into a tight fist. She'd never actually considered what she'd do after this ordeal was over and done with; Kurt had given her a temporary place of residence, but once their adventure was over, where else could she go? With no money or possessions to her name save for the clothes on her back, how could Catherine hope to make her living situation any better?

Other than staying with Kurt, she had nowhere else to go. Where else _could _she go? Catherine had no relatives in the city as far as she knew, and she couldn't even afford a train ticket to get herself out of Chicago.

_What if he doesn't want me to stay? _She thought, a moment of panic seizing her in a vice-like grip. _Kurt can barely afford to feed and clothe himself, and I've already imposed on him quite a bit?_

_I don't want to admit it, but I wouldn't blame him if he __did__ tire of me when this debacle with Capone is over._

A heavy feeling of dread settled over Catherine in a thick, suffocating blanket that draped around her shoulders and made it hard to breathe, and a pang of grief shot through her as she imagined leaving Kurt behind. That thought was even more unappealing than the prospect of living out on the street, though Catherine would never admit it. He had become such a large part of her life in such a short time that the thought of an existence without him in it was nearly inconceivable to her. Catherine marveled quietly at just how attached to Kurt she had grown; she like his talent for witticisms, and the sarcastic, cynical sense of humor that Catherine had initially found irritating was now something she rather enjoyed. She recalled the feeling of his arms around her the previous evening, and found bemusing the fact that this man who could bring a knife to a gunfight and come out on top was capable of treating another with such gentility. A blush gradually spread across her cheeks as Catherine remembered the feeling of his furry fingers running through her hair, of the compassionate look in those honey-colored eyes…

Logan had been right. Catherine and Kurt were becoming more than just friends, although neither of them was aware that their feelings were mutual.

"He's asleep, ain't he?" Logan muttered from the driver's seat. "Figures."

"Shut up," Catherine replied irritably.

"Ladies first."

"Age before beauty," Catherine snarked back.

Logan gritted his teeth as he swung the car around the corner and down a street that looked as though it hadn't been repaired in fifty years. "I can see how the two of you get along so well," he growled, as the cracked and pitted pavement caused them to bounce in their seats. "You're just as goddamn annoying as he is, lady."

"I resent that," Kurt piped up, having been woken by the car's rough ride on the bumpy street. "I'm not annoying at all. You just don't appreciate my company, Logan."

Catherine blushed again as a large pothole caused Kurt to pitch sideways in his seat. He grabbed her hand by pure reflex as a means of support, and she yanked him back before his head could collide with the back of Logan's chair.

The feeling of his fingers intertwined with hers made Catherine's vision swim, and Kurt's face turned an even deeper shade of blue as he realized that he had to force himself to release her. The furious beating of his heart matched the frenzied tattoo of Catherine's own, and with considerable mental effort he opened his palm to free her from his grasp. The action, so simple in concept, had been enormously difficult for Kurt to perform, but he did not realize that it was even harder for Catherine to take her hand away.

"Sorry," he muttered under his breath, looking away awkwardly.

"No problem," Catherine murmured back, brushing a strand of hair away from her eyes as her blush deepened. "It was, uh, an accident."

"R-i-i-i-ght," Logan took it upon himself to ruin the moment. "_Sure _it was. For God's sake, Wagner, just grow a pair and kiss her already! You're acting like a twelve-year-old with his first crush."

Kurt looked so embarrassed that he half-wished that someone would have the decency to shoot him and thereby alleviate his ordeal, and Catherine's heart went out to him as she saw the pained expression on his face. "I do _not_ have a crush on Catherine, okay?" he said at last, and the girl's heart promptly shattered into a million pieces. "I just lost my balance when you made that turn, that's all."

"Kurt's not my type," Catherine added bravely, not noticing the dismayed expression on his blue features.

Logan rolled his eyes, unconvinced, but he said nothing. Instead, he opted to stomp on the brake and bring the vehicle to a screeching halt that filled the air with the smell of burnt rubber.

"We're here," he grunted short-temperedly. "Now quit givin' each other googly eyes and git outta the car."

"You're sure this is where we'll find Moran?" Kurt asked.

"This entire section of the city was settled by the Irish a few decades back," Logan replied. "An' since Moran runs the Irish mob, it only makes sense that he'd be in this part o' town."

"True enough," Kurt admitted, conceding the point as Logan knocked on the door to a small, brick building that appeared to be scheduled for demolition. There were sounds of movement inside, and then a wooden slat was slid back to reveal two pairs of scowling eyes that scrutinized the little group carefully.

Kurt unconsciously gripped Catherine's hand in a sign of support as Logan leaned in close. "Tell yer boss we're here t'see him on business," he growled. "An' don't go tryin' t'tell me he ain't here, either. I'm not stupid and neither is he."

"What business is that?" the doorman ignored Logan's jibe.

"Can't say here," Logan whispered. "But if Moran hears us out, tell 'im he might just get a chance to…_eliminate _his chief competition."

The watcher was silent for a moment. "Wait here," he said shortly, sliding the peephole shut and disappearing back inside.

The wait took several moments, and although it took a relatively short time for the guard to return, the wait seemed to take forever. The small group lapsed into uncomfortable silence, each with his or her own wandering thoughts, and it seemed almost an eternity later that the door swung completely open to admit them.

"Mr. Moran will see you now," the man said in a lilting, Irish-accented voice as he mounted a flight of stairs. "Please follow me."

Kurt nodded shortly before he turned to his companions. "Let me do the talking," he whispered. "I know how Moran and his ilk work."

"The _hell _I will," Logan grunted. "Yer smart mouth is more likely t'git all of us killed. _I'll _do the talking."

"Right," Kurt grinned. "You're _so _good with people, after all."

Logan narrowed his eyes but said nothing. He knew Kurt had a point; the grizzled cop was as prickly as a cactus and grumpier than a bear that had been woken up from hibernation a few months early.

"I'm glad we understand each other," Kurt winked as he led the way up the stairwell and followed their guide into a narrow, dimly lit hallway. Sounds of muted, hushed conversation could be heard from a room at the very end of the corridor; the door was only partially shut, and the only light that could be found here was dim and sparse. It was fitting, Catherine thought, that a place used by such men would be shrouded in darkness.

Kurt pulled his hat low over his eyes to mask his face and took a deep breath. "Well, here goes everything," he grinned, though he was shaking slightly. Catherine didn't blame him for being nervous, however, seeing what had happened the last time Kurt had tried to set up this kind of meeting. His rendezvous with Capone, to put it lightly, hadn't gone all that well.

Kurt pushed the door open, and the hushed, blended drone of conversation ground to a sudden and abrupt halt. From behind the high collar of his trenchcoat, Kurt saw seven men gathered around a metal folding table, and they appeared to have been engaged in a high-stakes game of poker when he'd let himself into their midst. Six guards stood like armed sentinels in a semicircle of solid muscle, and Kurt had to force himself not to reach for one of his knives as he cleared his throat to speak.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he began, his tone courteous. "Might I ask which one of you is Mr. Moran?"

"Who wants t'know?" a figure, seated at the head of the table with his face bathed in shadow, inquired in a gravelly, short-tempered tone of voice.

"The name is Wagner. Kurt Wagner," the mutant replied. "I've come on behalf of one of my clients."

There was a general round of sniggering before the mystery pulled a gun out of his coat. "A professional snoop, huh? What's to keep me from blowin' your head off right where ya stand? I don't like people stickin' their noses in my business."

Kurt stared down the weapon's barrel utterly unafraid. "Because we have a common enemy," he said. "You want to bring down Capone, and I can offer you a way to do it."

The weapon made a soft _click _as its owner slid it back into its holster, and Bugs Moran leaned forward into the sparse lamplight as a cigar smoldered between his teeth. Slowly, deliberately, he took a deep puff and blew a perfect smoke ring in Kurt's face.

"Keep talkin'."

Kurt took a split second to study the man whom he hoped would be his ally. The mobster was round in shape but not overly obese, with a short, thick neck, dark eyes, and a thin cropping of brown hair on his balding head. He wore dark-colored slacks and a black vest over a white button-down shirt, and a dark tie was clasped at his throat. Moran was a head shorter than Kurt, his build stocky and solid, and from this Kurt deduced that he seemed to be the human equivalent of a stubborn, fiery-tempered bulldog.

"I come on behalf of one of my clients," Kurt continued, praying that Moran's dislike of Scarface would override his greed when he heard who Kurt was working for. "No doubt you've heard of the fate that befell the Prydes recently?"

"The DA that got plugged? Yeah, I heard all about that," Moran sniggered. "He should've known better. What about him?"

"I've been hired by his daughter to ensure that Capone pays for what he did to her family," Kurt said, motioning Catherine into the room. "But I can't fight a one-man war against Capone. You have men, materials and money, and I need them."

"The girl?" Moran's eyes widened as he gazed upon Catherine. "Heard you was dead, sister."

"You heard wrong," Catherine replied coldly. "Will you help us or not?"

Moran casually doused his cigar in an ashtray and took a sip of whiskey. "Depends, lady. What's in it for me?"

"If you help us put Capone away, his organization will crumble from within," Kurt explained artfully. "His lieutenants will eat each other over who gets to take his place. Capone's network will literally tear itself apart if he is not there to lead it, and when the dust settles, you'll be the last man standing."

"Think about it," Kurt added, moving a little closer and lowering his voice. "You've been battling Capone for nearly six years. All that power, all that money and influence…it _could _be yours, if you help us. Then _you _could run Chicago."

Kurt's speech was followed by a moment of terse, utter silence. Moran and his associates seemed to have been carved from stone; the only noise that could be heard was the ticking of the clock.

Moran broke the silence first. "What's the catch?"

"No tricks," Kurt held up his hands in a placating gesture. "No catch. No strings. You help me bring down your biggest competitor, and in return you get to take his place. Deal?"

"He's got a point, Bugs," a man seated to Moran's left said. "This could be the chink in Capone's armor. If we play this right, that little girl could end up causing Scarface a whole _world _of trouble."

Moran looked Kurt right in the eye. "I don't like you," he said flatly. "And frankly, I don't trust you, neither. But the chance to stick it to Capone ain't somethin' I'm about to pass out."

The mobster drew his weapon and leveled it at Catherine. "Try any funny business, give me one good reason to make me think twice about this, an' I'll kill the girl myself. Ya got that?"

"I can see that this relationship is something we'll all have to work on," Kurt replied lightly, sticking out his hand. "Partners?"

Moran's tight grip made Kurt want to wince in pain. "For now," he warned. "But don't even think of double-crossin'-"

_BRAT-BRAT-BRAT-BRAT-BRAAAAT! CRASH!_

There was a sudden and enormous cacophony of what was unmistakably the sound of gunfire and shattering window panes from downstairs, and someone's feet pounded the staircase in a loud, rhythmic beat as one of Moran's henchman burst into the room with a hand clasped to his injured arm.

What Kurt heard next made the blood in his veins run cold.

"We should make tracks, boss," the thug said, gasping in pain. "Capone's guys have found us!"

A/N: Oh, crap! That doesn't sound good! XD Looks like we have another action sequence on our hands, guys! ^^ Speaking of which, the next chapter may take me a bit longer than usual to post because of all the stuff I have planned for it, so I beg your patience and understanding in the slight delay. Don't forget that good things come to those who wait! XD And PLEASE REVIEW! If YOU have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW! YOUR OPINION COUNTS! ^^

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	12. Chapter 12

The Witness

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 12: Hunters and Prey

Kurt's face was grim as a pair of his trademark knives appeared in each hand. "Just our luck," he muttered to Logan from the side of his mouth.

"Just _your _luck, you mean," Logan replied. "This kinda stuff never happens when I'm on the beat!"

One of Moran's thugs kicked the poker table over so as to create a makeshift barricade, and Kurt yanked Catherine right off her feet to get her behind it so she wouldn't get snuffed by a lucky shot.

Logan grimaced as the sounds of feet pounding on the stairs reached him. "They've already gained control of the first floor," he nodded to his companions. "Ain't nothin' for it now; we'll have to fight our way back out to the street and make our getaway from there."

Moran aimed his pistol blindly over the upturned table's edge and fired off several potshots as the door to the room buckled under the weight of whoever was attempting to break it down. The Irishman's gangsters had locked themselves inside only moments after they'd discovered that their position was compromised, but it was obvious to most that the door itself wouldn't stop the oncoming tide for long.

_WHAM!_

Kurt visibly flinched as the door buckled inward, and a spider's web of cracks spread along its surface as it was nearly torn from its hinges.

_WHAM!_

Again, the door buckled as someone on the other side threw every ounce of his weight against it. In a moment, Kurt knew, the entrance would give way and all hell would break loose in this tiny room, and he gave a short nod to Logan as his blue, furry body tensed up like a coiled metal spring.

_WHAM! CRASH!_

The door at last came thundering down like the walls of Jericho, as it disintegrated into several jagged chunks of twisted wreckage, and no sooner had the choking dust of cracked drywall and splintered wood begun to settle than Catherine's world exploded in a deafening chorus of mingled gunshots and bright, yellow flashes that lit up the room like a dozen strobe lights. Bullets _zinged _and _whizzed _around the young woman's head, ricocheting and bouncing off anything that the slugs did not destroy, shred or shatter, and Kurt pressed a snub-nosed revolver into her hand with a roguish wink that seemed entirely out of place in such a dangerous situation.

"Just in case," the PI told her with a smile that was meant to be reassuring. "Aim for the head, okay?"

Catherine nearly dropped the weapon in distaste, but her resolve hardened as she remembered what her attackers had done to her family. "Don't you have anything bigger?" she asked, looking askance at the small firearm as Teflon-coated slugs continued to fly all around her.

Kurt ducked back behind the table in order to avoid having his head turned to jelly. _She looks so __hot __when she's holding a gun, _he thought, grinning inwardly before shooting a knowing glance at Logan.

The grizzled cop knew exactly what Kurt was trying to say, even though the mutant hadn't even said a word.

_Let's get Catherine out of here._

Logan hefted his beloved pistol and slid a clip in place, and for a brief moment a bond of comradeship passed between himself and Kurt.

_Right behind you, _came Logan's silent reply.

"Keep 'em off me so I can get my boys outta here," Moran added, sensing what was about to happen. "I'll give you a call and meet up with you later once the heat's died down. Pop a few of 'em for me, will ya?"

Apparently Kurt did not have the time or energy to waste on coherent sentences, because he merely snarled in reply and stood in unison with Logan. With a sudden burst of speed and a perfectly timed, simultaneous kick, the two men sent the remains of the poker table flying through air to crash into the men who had until now pinned them down with their withering, constant rain of gunfire. Bullets shredded the cheap plastic as it pinned several men beneath its girth, and the fighting began in earnest as the stunned, disoriented men fought to extricate themselves.

Kurt was on them like a bat out of Hell before they even got close.

A piece of razor-edged steel made a noise like an angry wasp as it literally _flashed _from Kurt's palm and embedded itself with a satisfying _thud _in the collarbone of someone who'd been unfortunate enough to draw the mutant's ire. The man screamed as his lifeblood gushed from him in jetting spurts of crimson gore, and the knife had been thrown with such force that only its hilt protruded from his flesh. The stricken, dying man clutched blade, tried to remove it, failed, and finally collapsed with an agonized moan.

Kurt didn't even have to look to know that his aim had been true. With all the grace of an Olympic acrobat and the lithe lethality of a jungle beast, he vaulted effortlessly over a sneering thug who swung a crowbar at his head. Kurt landed on all fours behind his assailant's back, and, lashing out with his foot in a semicircular, sweeping arc, he knocked the enforcer's feet out from under him and flayed him open from belly to throat as he went down. The ruined, savaged corpse hit the floor with a wet, sickening _SPLAT, _and Kurt wasted no time in turning to meet another onslaught and parting his next attacker's hair with the edge of his knife. A spurt of blood issued from the deep cut on the top of the unfortunate man's skull, and his face was a mask of pain as he expired with a dying gurgle.

Logan threw himself into the packed, confused melee with all the fury and reckless abandon of a desolating storm, his finger pumping the trigger of his Browning semiautomatic in a rapid, deadly accurate volley of whizzing, screeching lead. With a spectacular, stentorian roar, Logan lunged at a man who took aim at his chest, knocking the firearm out of his hand and breaking his nose with a crushing head-butt to the man's face. There was a sickening, wet _crunch _as the nose of Logan's enemy shattered into a million pieces, and the man pawed at his ruined face in agony before Logan ended all his problems with a merciless, well-placed shot to the heart. Turning with surprising speed that belied his bulk, Logan pistol-whipped his latest challenger across the cheek with the butt of his pistol before firing a spread of bullets into his victim's chest at point-blank range. The rapidly cooling corpse collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut, and Logan deftly replaced the spent ammunition clip with a fresh one in a smooth, practiced motion.

No sooner had the clip _clicked _softly in place above the dreadful clamor than Logan dropped a thug who had been advancing on Kurt. The mutant, himself likewise engaged, had had his back turned and would not have seen his assailant until it was too late.

"Watch your back," Logan snarled, as bullets chewed the wallpaper on either side of him.

One of Kurt's signature, thin-bladed knives _thrummed _through the air, and Logan turned in time to see the weapon sink into the eyeball of yet another brutish foe who'd been sneaking up behind _him._

"Watch your own," Kurt grinned back, sending one of his enemies rolling head-over-heels down the stairwell with a savage kick. Knives flew in every direction as the mutant spun and whirled in a lethally graceful dance of death, and his trench-coat flew behind him like a pair of tattered, bat-like wings to give him a positively demonic appearance.

Moran's voice cut over the dreadful din, and Kurt almost did a double-take at what he heard. "Get yer girlfriend outta here!" the Irish mob boss shouted at the top of his lungs, shoving Catherine down out of harm's way.

"I can handle myself!" Catherine shouted back, firing off a few potshots from the cover of the overturned table. A man screamed as the slug tore through his back and out his chest, and Kurt flashed Catherine an approving grin before turning his attention back to the task at hand.

"Yer no good to me dead, lass!" Moran snarled, grabbing her by the arm and heaving her up before thrusting her at Kurt. "Git 'er somewhere safe! There's nothing you can do here; sooner or later, they'll overrun us!"

"What about you?" Kurt couldn't help but ask. He was concerned for Moran's welfare not out of charity or compassion, but rather because Moran himself was a vital linchpin in the overall scheme that Kurt had developed in his fertile, cunning mind.

"My boys and I will hold them off long enough fer you to git the hell outta here," Moran said grimly, reloading his gun again as a fresh wave of attackers began to hurl themselves at the dwindling and exhausted allies. By this time, the men who were in Capone's employ had to charge over the bodies of their compatriots, some piled three high and three deep, and the floor was so slick with blood that fighters on both sides slipped and fell.

Logan gave Kurt a knowing look. "He's right, you know," he growled, caving in a man's skull with the butt of his firearm. "We can't hole up in here forever. It's only a matter o' time afore we're overrun."

Kurt grabbed Catherine protectively by the arm and plunged his blade through the underside of a man's skull, so that the blade could be seen protruding into his mouth as it opened in a silent, agonized scream. "Your relentless optimism in the face of adversity is nothing short of inspiring," he said lightly, shoving the body aside and cutting the throat of his latest challenger with a well-aimed swipe.

Logan reached into the folds of his coat and produced a deceptively innocent-looking bottle that had been partially filled with a clear, strong smelling liquid. A filthy rag, which had been stuffed inside it, protruded out of the bottle's lip, and a cigarette lighter appeared in Logan's hand as he held the small flame to the rag's tip. The soaked material caught fire with a _whoosh _and a _hiss, _and Logan arched an eyebrow knowingly at Kurt before he lobbed the missile at the packed ranks of the enemy.

"_Get down!"_ Logan roared at the top of his lungs as the makeshift Molotov cocktail sailed end-over-end in a flaming arc. It exploded in mid-air with a sucking, bass-toned _ka-fwoosh _that sent shards of white-hot glass in every direction as the bottle disintegrated in a blinding, roiling and furious fireball. The fires burned ferociously, latching onto anything and anyone they touched, and Logan had to cover his face to prevent his skin from being seared by the fierce heat as screams of agony began to reach his ears.

The effect of the missile on Capone's men was instantaneous and completely gruesome. Several men were completely engulfed in flames, their ragged screams of agony harsh on one's ears as they ran about in aimless circles, mindless with pain. The air grew thick with the stench of roasted flesh and burnt hair, and more than one of the thugs was so badly burnt that their corpses were rendered practically unrecognizable.

"Now's our chance!" Kurt shouted, seizing the opportunity and clasping Catherine by the hand. She turned scarlet at the gesture, but Kurt was beyond noticing; with Moran and his surviving gang hot on his heels, he shoved Catherine roughly onto the stairs of the ruined building as it began to be engulfed in flames.

"Keep moving!" Logan added, waving the others on before taking his place at the rear of the group. "Don't stop!"

Kurt hissed in frustration as he tried to wrench the exit open, but the door, which had been smashed and broken beyond repair in the melee, refused to open.

"Get out of the way!" Kurt shouted, backing up several steps and charging back as the fires began to spread down the stairwell. The mutant put all his weight behind one shoulder as his feet pounded the floor, and the door's frame shudder as the ruined entryway practically exploded in a cloud of splinters and choking dust. The (relatively) fresh air from outside flooded in, blessedly free of the choking smoke that had begun to make breathing difficult, and Logan kept his weapon leveled and ready as he edged out onto the curb.

"All clear!" Kurt called, waving Catherine on as Logan slid into the driver's seat. "Get in the car, _now_!"

Catherine kept her own firearm steady and level as she reluctantly obeyed. She was starting to chafe at being the proverbial damsel in distress; more than anything, she wanted an opportunity to show Kurt that she could hold her own in a fight, but whether that opportunity was immediately forthcoming remained to be seen.

Kurt hurled himself into the seat next to her, and he reached forward to slap the dashboard several times. "Get us out of here!"

"Don't tell me how to do my job!" Logan replied gruffly, stamping on the accelerator and causing the car to lurch forward with a grinding, shrieking _screech_.

Catherine was nearly thrown forward in her seat as the vehicle gained speed, but just as she was starting to breathe a sigh of relief, Logan happened to look in his rearview mirror and notice that a second vehicle had taken up the chase. His eyes widened in alarm as someone in the other car leaned out the window with a Thompson submachine gun in his hand, and sparks flew as the bullets ricocheted off the steel bumper and chewed the pavement. One stray shot practically disintegrated the rear window into a thousand pieces, and Catherine instinctively covered her head as shards of glass covered flew all around her.

"We're being followed!" Kurt had to yell to make himself heard over the roar of the engine.

"No kidding!" Logan shouted back as he turned the wheel sharply. "Keep 'em off me while I try to lose 'em!"

"Easier said than done!" Kurt retorted, struggling to aim the weapon accurately as the car swerved rapidly from side to side. The smell of burning rubber made his nose sting, but nevertheless Kurt's face split into a triumphant grin as he managed to line up his target and fire off a single, well-aimed shot. The gunman in the vehicle that was pursuing them was thrown clear out onto the street as the slug drilled into his skull, and his body rolled and skidded several times before coming to a stop by the side of the road in a pool of blood.

Kurt clapped one hand to his fedora to prevent it from being blown away, and he let out a cry of astonishment as his assailants hit the gas and collided jarringly with the bumper of Logan's car. The vehicle lurched like a wounded beast, and Kurt shattered the other Model T's windshield with his firearm so as to slay the man in the passenger's side. The man he'd killed slumped forward onto the dashboard like a discarded toy, and Logan swerved sharply to the left to avoid another collision and bring the two vehicles side-by-side.

A man leaned out of Capone's car with a sawed-off shotgun, but Kurt beat literally beat him to the punch. The mutant crawled out of the shattered rear window, and, balancing precariously on the trunk of Logan's Ford, grabbed his foe by the collar and heaved him out onto the street. The thug uttered a scream of surprise and dismay as he hit the pavement at thirty miles an hour, and the motion almost made Kurt lose his balance before Catherine latched onto the corner of his trenchcoat and pulled him to safety.

"Thanks," Kurt nodded, his whole body shaking from the adrenaline rush.

"Don't thank 'er too early!" Logan cut in. "We ain't outta the woods just yet!"

"Can you try to lose them?" Catherine asked.

"In this hunk of junk? Not likely!" Logan snorted. "Our best bet is to try to either outgun 'em or outrun 'em. What do you think, Kurt?"

Catherine interrupted her friend as he opened his mouth to speak. "I think this chase has gone on long enough," she said.

Before anyone could react, Catherine seized Kurt's borrowed firearm and wrenched it from his grasp. Kurt's face fell in protest, but she moved too quickly for him to retrieve his weapon. Catherine's dress, now ragged and torn, billowed behind her in the rushing wind as her hair flew around her head. The girl's expression was one of utmost fury, and as she lined up the Browning's barrel with the pursuing vehicle's front tire, her voice, though quiet, was deadly in its intent.

"_For Mother and Father,_" Catherine whispered, pulling the trigger.

The effect was immediate and devastating. The rubber tire practically exploded as the Teflon-coated round punctured it like a balloon, and the car swerved from side to side before its sheer velocity sent it veering out of control and flipping it _end-over-end_ several feet in the air. The sheet metal from which the vehicle was made landed on the pavement with a shrieking, gyrating _crunch, _and the car crumpled like a used soda can under the force of its impact. The likelihood of the survival of any of its occupants was, to be frank, unlikely at best.

Logan turned around and took a moment to stare at Catherine, whose calm, cold composure never once changed despite the wreckage she'd created.

The cop gave a low whistle. "Well, _I'm _impressed."

"Way to go, Catherine!" Kurt added, wrapping his arms around her in a fierce, instinctive hug.

It only took a few seconds for Kurt to realize what he was doing, and his face grew so hot that someone probably could have roasted hot dogs on his cheeks if he had a mind to do it. He released her awkwardly, his eyes downcast, looking at anything but her. For Catherine's part, she gave a surprised squeak at the unexpected gesture, but in less than a second her blush rivaled Kurt's own.

"Sorry," Kurt muttered awkwardly. "I, uh, didn't mean to…"

"Yeah," Catherine replied, thoroughly embarrassed. "It was, uh, nothing."

In the front seat, Logan resisted the urge to bang his forehead against the steering wheel. _Oh, for Pete's sake, Kurt, _he thought. _Just grow a pair and kiss her already, you big chicken!_

A/N: Well, it wouldn't be a crime/romance fic without at LEAST one car chase scene, would it? XD But will Moran keep his word? Will he help Kurt and Catherine? And how did Capone know exactly where to find them? Find out in coming chapters! And PLEASE REVIEW! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW! YOUR OPINION COUNTS! ^^

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	13. Chapter 13

The Witness

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 13: Treacherous Whispers! Subterfuge and Deception in the Streets of Chicago!

Logan pulled his now-battered and pock-marked vehicle into a narrow bystreet, and Kurt cast Catherine an admiring glance before the _all _the car's occupants breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"That was too close," Kurt said finally, catching his breath.

"Ya think?" Logan's tone was sarcastic. "What the hell was goin' through yer head, jumpin' onto the trunk when we're going _that _fast? You'll git yerself killed one o' these days, mark my words!"

"I thought you'd be rather impressed," Kurt grumbled. "It wasn't easy, you know."

"_I _was impressed, for what it's worth," Catherine piped up, trying to soothe Kurt's wounded ego. He blushed at the praise, but Logan merely snorted derisively and turned back around to the task at hand.

"You know what this means," Logan said grimly. "No one but Moran and his people knew we were coming, Kurt."

"There seems to be a rat loose in Bugs's organization," Kurt nodded. "A disturbing development, indeed."

"Does Moran know?" Catherine asked.

"He probably figured it out before we did," Logan sneered. "He'll be playing things even closer to the vest now that he has no idea who he can trust."

"Can we trust _him?"_ Kurt asked. "We need Moran's help, after all."

"We can trust Moran as long as his goals and ours coincide," Catherine said firmly. "He's an opportunist, just like the rest of his kind. He won't let a chance like this slip through his fingers if it means that he can put the screws to Capone, not if he can help it."

"There has to be a way to smoke out Capone's source," Logan added. "The snitch is a serious threat to everything we've got going here, and the way our luck's going it won't be long before Capone himself figures out that you're still alive and kickin', lady."

"If I know Capone," Kurt said slowly, glancing knowingly at Catherine. "He probably does already. You'd be amazed at how fast news travels in this town, especially among its…_less savory _and less upstanding citizens."

"We should get word to Moran that his position is no longer safe," Catherine added. "If we're going to rendezvous with him later, he needs to be on his guard. Tell him to take only as many men as he absolutely needs; we can't take the risk of having our location betrayed again."

"Got that right," Logan's grin was wry. "And next time we might not be so lucky, yeah?"

Kurt addressed the cop next. "Don't pull over at the street in front of my office, Logan. Capone is probably having it watched. Turn left up ahead and pull in behind that dumpster. You guys wait there while I climb in through the rear window; I have a key that unlocks it."

"What will you do?" Logan asked.

"Me?" Kurt put on his best innocent face. "I'm just going to make a phone call."

"Smart-ass," Logan growled, turning the wheel.

_Meanwhile..._

In his sanctum sanctorum in an undisclosed location, Bugs Moran was practically beside himself with fury. He had indeed, in accordance with Kurt's hypothesis, already discerned that there was an informant within the ranks of his network, and the only thing keeping him from gunning down his remaining men where they stood was the fact that he might have need of them later. Bugs threw off his hat and gnawed savagely at its brim like a wild jungle beast, and the fabric finally tore through with a satisfying _rip _as Moran clenched the fabric between his teeth. His infamous temper on full display, Moran breathed heavily as he debated with himself over what to do next. Skipping town or running away was hardly an option; Moran's hatred of Capone demanded nothing less than blood vengeance for what had happened. Instead, Moran thought, his scarlet complexion gradually being replaced by a cunning smile, if there was a leak, why not make use of it? If Capone was looking for information, Moran would give it to him; of course, the information would be false so as to mislead Capone and thereby lure him into a trap, but Capone would only realize that when it was too late.

Moran picked up his phone, grinning inwardly. The PI, what's-his-face, had to be let in on the scheme. A wave of his hand dismissed the guards outside the warehouse door, and Moran listened intently for a moment to make sure he was not being eavesdropped upon before he dialed a number.

The phone rang three times until someone at the other end picked up. The voice was unmistakably that of Kurt.

"Hello?" Kurt's tone was wary, and he deepened his words to disguise himself.

"It's me," Moran said. "Shouldn't you be hidin' or somethin'? Capone's probably got your place under surveillance!"

"I came in through a window," Kurt assured him. "I just needed to pick up a few things if I'm not able to return for a few days. I was just about to call _you, _actually. What's going on?"

"I got me an idea," Moran replied. "You an' I have both figured out by now that Capone's got people in my organization, right?"

"Of course. That is a problem, though, to be sure."

"Not necessarily," Moran whispered furtively. "If we use this to our advantage and set Capone up."

"Feed Scarface false information?" Kurt breathed as the scheme dawned on him. "I like the sound of _that. _What's the game?"

"I'll tell my boys that we're meeting you near the harbor on Lake Erie in six hours," Moran said in a low voice. "When Capone and his guy show up, we'll be waiting for them, and ten seconds after that ol' Scarface will be takin' a vacation to the bottom of the docks."

"We're not out to kill Capone, not if we can help it," Kurt reminded him. "If at all possible, we want him to stand trial for what he's done."

"Let me know how that works," Moran snickered. "My way's quicker, faster, cheaper, and _much _more permanent."

"Who do you suspect of being the leak?"

"No ideas so far. I don't memorize the names of the thugs I put on my payroll," Moran shook his head. "We'll deal with that problem when the leak's outlived his usefulness; by then, I'm sure I'll have a pretty good idea who it is."

"I hope you're right," Kurt's tone was grave, "for all our sakes."

"I'm always right," Moran snickered, making to slam the phone down on the receiver and whistling for his men to re-enter the room. "Got to go. I'll meet up with you shortly at the agreed-upon location. Once I've told Capone's snitch what he wants to hear, that is."

"Understood," Kurt replied shortly, and the line went dead.

With the straight face of a smooth, polished liar, Moran looked his enforcers over. "Okay, boys," he said. "Here's what we're gonna do…"

_At the same time…_

Kurt looked at the phone in his hand as though it were a handful of plague virus. He detested Moran as much as he did Capone, but there was no need for Moran to know that. He and Scarface were both threads of the same carpet, as far as Kurt was concerned, and he eased himself back out onto the street where Logan had parked his car.

Kurt glanced from side to side as he slid into the back seat once more. "Just got through talking to our friend Moran," he said. "And you were right, Logan; he suspected treachery within his ranks before we did."

"What's he proposing?"

"That we use the leak to feed Capone false intel and set him up for a trap," Kurt rubbed his hands gleefully before his gaze turned serious. "This is the second time he's gotten the drop on us. There will _not _be a third. The next time Capone sends his men to do his dirty work, I intend to be ready for him."

"You planning on killing him, then?" Catherine asked warily.

"Not if I can help it, thought I'd be lying if I said I hadn't considered it," Kurt admitted grudgingly. "It's certainly what he deserves, after what he did, but all other options are being explored."

"Glad to hear it," Catherine muttered. "Death's too good for him, Kurt. I want him to rot in prison for the rest of his miserable life."

"And therein lies our second challenge, after we strike back at Capone and get enough proof for an indictment," Kurt reminded her. "Capone's tentacles penetrate everywhere in this city; we need to find a judge who's willing to prosecute."

"I'll put it on my 'to-do list,'" Logan grumbled. "Any chance we can stop for a bite to eat? I'm starving."

"Your stomach will have to wait, Logan," Catherine's tone warned that she would brook no argument. "We have work to do."

"Yeah, yeah," the grizzled cop muttered grumpily. "Don't remind me. I'm already neck-deep in this pile of shit you've dragged me into, so I may as well go in all the way over my head."

"That's the spirit," Kurt patted him cheerfully on the back. "A positive attitude makes everything seem better."

"Remove your hand or I'll rip off your arm and clobber you over the head with it," Logan warned him.

"And _that's _why we work so well together," Kurt went on as though he had not heard. "You're just _so _easy to talk to, Logan."

"How'd you like to ride back to your office on the end o' my foot, blue-boy?"

"A generous offer, dearest Logan, but I'm afraid I'll have to decline."

"Don't make me come back there and kick your furry ass, Wagner!"

"I take exception to that, actually. My ass isn't furry at all," Kurt looked playfully mollified at the accusation. "Why, it's as smooth as a baby forehead. There was no call for that, was there, sweet cheeks?"

"Leave me out of this," the girl muttered, though she was secretly delighted at the use of Kurt's pet name for her.

_Epilogue_

_Downtown Chicago…_

Al Capone, seated in a plush leather armchair, set the receiver of his desk telephone down gently as his informant in Moran's network gave him the latest update. His fingers trembled slightly as a particularly juicy bit of news made his nerves go on edge. A loose end, one that he'd thought had been tied up days ago, had seemingly literally come back to haunt him.

The Pryde girl still lived.

Capone resisted the urge to break something. _How is it possible? I saw the body myself! _He thought angrily, getting up and pacing like a caged lion. _I've never had one person cause me so much trouble! It's almost as if she had…._

He stopped in mid-step. _It's almost as if she had an accomplice. No one can pull off such a convincing performance without help from someone else._

Capone's mind flashed back to the mysterious, heavily garbed figure that had come to see him that night, a man who's face had been hidden but whose name he now knew all too well. It was the same man who had attempted to claim the bounty on Catherine's head, and he had killed fifteen of Scarface's toughest enforcers when Capone had tried to tie up loose ends and have him killed.

Capone's fist clenched so hard that he could _hear _the knuckles in his fingers begin to grate and scrape together.

_Wagner, _he thought breathlessly._ It was Wagner all along! He played me like a fiddle and then allied himself with Bugs Moran to take me down! By the time I'm done with him, he'll wish he had never been born, and he'll curse the mother that brought him into this world! I'll see you dead yet, Wagner! Mark my words!_

_Clever bastard, _Capone continued silently. _But the joke is on you, my friend. After all, my source in Moran's network has already told me what your little band is planning; when you show up to meet Moran tonight, you will find a __very __warm welcome waiting for you. You may have gotten lucky so far, but your string has almost run out._

Unbeknownst to him, Bugs Moran, who had done a rather impressive job of posing as Capone's mole, hung up the phone and cast a gap-toothed grin at his companions. On either side of him, Logan, Kurt and Catherine looked expectantly for an answer.

Logan flicked the safety off his firearm in anticipation. "Did he buy it?"

"Oh, he bought it," Moran smiled wickedly. "Hook, line and sinker. My mother always did say I had a talent for impersonations. The static on the other end did wonders to disguise me; make no mistake, he'll be there, all right, and when he does, he'll think he's just stepped into a war zone."

"I'm sick of taking Capone's punishment," Logan growled. "And I'd sure like to be able to give some back!"

"There will be plenty to go around, I assure you," Kurt said dryly, checking his watch. "We have exactly six hours to prepare for our surprise attack, gentlemen. I suggest we get busy."

Moran motioned to one of his men. "Get our guests a round of drinks, you stooges," he snarled. "We've got work to do."

A/N: Ooh, NOW things are getting interesting! But will Moran's scheme work? Can he really be trusted? And will Kurt and Catherine EVER admit their feelings for each other? Find out in coming chapters! And PLEASE, PLEASE review! I want to hear what YOU have to say! If you have any ideas, suggestions, or feedback, PLEASE LET ME KNOW! YOUR OPINION COUNTS!

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	14. Chapter 14

The Witness

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 14: Guy Talk

The dilapidated section of Chicago's lakeside pier in which Kurt found himself had obviously seen better days. The wooden planks that constituted the jetty on which he stood had long ago been warped and twisted from prolonged exposure to the wet, damp air of the harbor, and it creaked ponderously underfoot as he paced restlessly, almost like a caged, anxious beast as Logan and Moran worked to set the pieces in place for the trap they had decided to set for their mutual foe.

Kurt could handle himself in a fight, so it wasn't the prospect of violence that had him edgy. What _really _got to him was the agonizing period in which one must _wait _for the fight to come, that interval in which one knows conflict is coming and is unable to do anything but squirm and fidget. Kurt felt his nerves fraying like strands of rope, and he cursed Capone under his breath as he cast an eye over the water for the fourth time in as many minutes. There wasn't much to see, but the brief distraction helped take his mind off of other things, like, say, his newfound feelings for Catherine.

Kurt's nostrils flared as he inhaled the cold air through his nose and let it out in a deep sigh, and a chilly wind made his trenchcoat blow theatrically around him as he stuffed his hands in his pockets to prevent them from growing numb. It was bitterly cold out, miserably wet from the water vapor that rolled onto shore from the lake in waves of mist, and Kurt was silently grateful that he didn't get sick easily as his mind turned, slowly and inevitably, toward _her._

Kurt could almost picture her perfect face, framed by those locks of brown hair that offset Catherine's eyes perfectly. He could recall her voice, lovely as the ringing of a crystal bell, as clearly as though she were sitting right next to him. Everything about Catherine Pryde fascinated Kurt to no end, and more and more he found that thoughts of his friend began to dominate his waking hours and fill his dreams. Kurt glanced at his three-fingered hand with something approaching sadness as he remembered how Catherine's palm had felt when it had been pressed against his own. The unfamiliar, frightening, and startling intense tornado of raw emotion that had seized Kurt when he'd held her hand still caused him no end of confusion and frustration. Feelings that he could neither identify nor label had begun to make Kurt feel awkward and self-conscious whenever Catherine drew near, and the fact that Logan took delight in teasing him didn't really help, either.

Kurt peered over the jetty and saw his reflection staring back at him from the dark, smooth and glassy surface of the lake. His malformed hand, his piercing, golden eyes, and his blue, furry body were all clearly visible on the waters of the deep, and Kurt felt his gaze narrow with disgust and self-loathing as he lunged out with his arm and splashed the reflection away.

Kurt averted his head and headed back to the docks, but Logan stopped him before he could go any further.

"I'd ask if you were okay," the cop said, "but we both know you're not. Normally I'd be happy for the peace and quiet, but comin' from you this kinda behavior seems downright unnatural."

"Go away," Kurt muttered, trying to elbow his past.

Logan didn't budge. "You've got girl problems, huh?" It was a statement of factual information rather than a straight-up inquiry.

"I do _not,_" Kurt snapped. "I'm just…_thinking_, that's all."

"Right," Logan snorted. "And I'm the President of the United States."

"Even if I _was _thinking about Catherine, which I'm not saying I am, why should you care?"

Logan sighed and sat down on the jetty, his feet dangling over the water, and motioned for Kurt to join him. "I don't blame ya fer feelin' all confused an' such," he said casually. "Feelin' like that fer the first time tends to do that to a person."

"What do you mean?" Kurt tried to look as though he had no idea what Logan was talking about.

The grizzled cop muttered something obscene under his breath as he fished in the pocket of his coat, and in any other situation Kurt's face would have split into a sardonic grin as Logan removed two cans of beer from underneath his jacket and handed one to his companion. They were still cold.

"Yer in love," Logan said, thrusting the beverage into Kurt's hand. "Have a beer."

"I don't want-"

"Shut up and drink it, wouldja?"

Kurt gave up, defeated, and resignedly opened his can. "Fine."

Logan brought his beer to his lips. "An' don't try foolin' me, either. I seen the way you lookit 'er when ya think she won't notice. Anyone with half an eye and a few brain cells can figure it out what's goin' on in that head o' yours. Admit it: yer head over heels fer that girl."

"But-"

"Say it."

"Logan-"

"Th'first step toward gettin' her t'like you is to acknowledge it!" Logan snarled. "How d'you plan on convincing her that you're sincere when you won't even admit it to yourself? You want my help or not? _Say it!"_

_"_No offense, Logan, but I think you're the _last _person I should go to about something like this," Kurt replied.

"Oh?" Logan shot back. "Who else are you gonna ask, hmm? Moran's thugs? They ain't got an IQ point between the lot of 'em!"

"Okay, okay!" Kurt sighed. "I…I love her, all right? Are you happy now?"

"Ain't _me _we're talkin' about," Logan shook his head. "Say it again. Like you mean it."

"I love her."

"Louder."

"I love her!"

"LOUDER!"

"_I love her!" _

Logan's face split into something that might have been a grin. "There ya go. Feel better?"

Kurt's smile was bitter. "Marginally."

"So now the question is: whaddaya plan on doin' about it? She won't just throw herself at ya, ya know."

"I wish I knew," Kurt said miserably, holding his head in his hands.

Logan slapped him on the back playfully, and though the blow was not meant to cause physical discomfort, Kurt nonetheless had to bite his tongue to keep from wincing.

"You'll know the opportune moment when it arrives, blue-boy," Logan said firmly, crushing his empty beer can in his fist. "An' when it comes you'd better damn well take it, 'cuz it probably ain't gonna come around a second time."

"I'll remember that," Kurt replied quietly, but then he rubbed the back of his neck in an awkward fashion as he tried to figure out what to say next. "Erm…thank you, Logan. For listening, I mean."

"I ain't much of a talker, anyway," the cop's tone was gruff and flat as Logan strode off to leave him to his thoughts, and as he walked along the dockside he found Bugs Moran walking alongside him.

"What do _you _want, Moran?" Logan snarled.

"Nothing," the Irish mobster shrugged. "I merely thought I should inform you that we're running ahead of schedule. My men should be in position in less than an hour, and when Capone arrives, we will catch him off-guard in the trap we've set for him."

"You'd damn well _better_," Logan replied, glaring at him with a stare that could have made Medusa shudder. "Glad to see you're not _totally _useless, dirtbag."

Moran's eyes narrowed into icy slits. "Our arrangement notwithstanding, if we were in public, I would have you killed for speaking that way to me."

"If we were in public," Logan hissed venomously, stabbing a finger at Moran's chest, "you'd _try._"

He turned to leave, but Moran's sudden inquiry stopped him. "Tell me, Officer Howlett," he said. "Why did _you _sign on to Wagner's scheme? You know very well the reason why _I _agreed to help him, but I'm curious to know yours."

"None of your damn business."

"It _becomes _my business when I put my _entire _organization on the line," Moran pointed out with a smirk. "Indulge my curiosity; it certainly won't harm anything."

Logan hesitated for a second with his reply, as though it were hard for him to say. "I'm in this because…well…because Wagner's my friend," he muttered at last, clenching his teeth.

Moran arched an eyebrow. "That's it? What's so significant about that? Hell, I've got _lots_ of friends."

Logan shook his head. "I don't."

A/N: Yes, I know it's a bit shorter chapter than usual, but I felt that Logan and Kurt's friendship could use a bit more depth before we get to the part where they spring the trap on Capone. (OR DO THEY? *Insert dramatic music here*) And (special shout-out to Indigo-Night-Wisp here) fear not, the moment you've all been anticipating between Kurt and Kitty isn't far away at all! And coming up, the two sides clash again, and Capone strikes a devastating blow! Finally, as always PLEASE REVIEW! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW! ^^

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	15. Chapter 15

The Witness

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 15: The Trap is Sprung

The previous flurry of activity that had until now continued unabated on the run-down section of Chicago's dockside had given way to an eerie, oppressive silence that was almost unbearable in its totality, and waves of mist rolled onto the harbor in milky wisps of vapor while the entire world seem to lie as silent as a tomb. The only noise that penetrated the unnerving quiet was the distant sound of honking horns from a far-off freeway or thoroughfare, and overhead, the dim light from the street lamps cast flickering shadows that danced in the gloom.

A stray piece of discarded newspaper was blown across the silent street by a slight gust of chilly wind, and the mist grew so thick that the entire world seemed shrouded in a blurry haze that made it hard to see for any length of distance.

From his hiding place behind a carelessly piled stack of crates and barrels, Kurt fidgeted nervously as he fiddled with the blade of his knife. With a casual flick of his wrist, he sent the weapon spinning into the air and deftly caught it as it came down, whereupon Logan gave him a swift slap upside the head and leaned in so close that Kurt could smell the alcohol on his breath.

"Knock it off, wouldja?" Logan hissed. "If that thing hits me on the way down, it's comin' outta yer hide."

"Sorry," Kurt shrugged, putting his blade away in the folds of his coat. "I'm just…anxious, I guess."

"Well don't go fidgeting, or you'll make _me _nervous," Logan snorted. "Besides, it ain't healthy t'let yer nerves git the best o' ya before a fight. Makes ya all jittery an' throws off yer aim."

"That's one thing I could do without," Kurt stared at his knife pensively. "Do you think he'll be here?"

"He'll be here, all right," Bugs Moran grinned viciously as he flicked the safety off of his weapon. "Capone never could resist an opportunity like this; I made sure that whoever's feedin' him information got the message I wanted him to hear. He'll show up before this night is out, you mark my words."

"Let's hope you're right," Catherine muttered darkly. "For your sake."

"Little lady's got some fire in her," Moran snickered. "I like that in a woman."

Kurt only just restrained himself from scalping his ally then and there. "Mind who you're sweet-talking," he muttered.

The gangster grinned. "Oh, is she yours? I'm sorry; didn't mean to step on your toes."

Kurt gritted his teeth. _If we didn't need your help, I'd kill you, _he thought savagely. _I'd shove my knife so far up your ass that you'd be able to __taste __it._

Moran seemed to deduce what Kurt was thinking, because his hand strayed to his weapon before Logan took it upon himself to defuse the situation.

"Let's concentrate on fighting one person at a time, shall we?" Logan said under his breath.

"He started it," Kurt muttered childishly, folding his arms across his chest.

Catherine only just managed to smother her laughter. In such a dangerous situation as this, she was immensely grateful to Kurt for his (albeit unintentional) lightening of the general mood.

Kurt glared at her. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," she replied, a little bit too quickly. "Something in my throat, that's all."

"Stow the gab, idiots!" Logan whispered urgently, sneaking a peek over the top of the crate, "we've got company!"

"Capone?" Kurt's eyes glittered with anticipation in the dim light.

"Probably."

It was true; the sputtering of a car's motor gave away the new arrivals long before Kurt or Catherine ever caught a glimpse of them. The vehicle's headlights shone blurred and distorted in the foggy air, like the eyes of some great beast, and as the sound grew louder Kurt could literally _feel _his heart beat faster with every second that went by. The blood began to pound in his ears, and his grip on his knife tightened as every muscle in his body tensed like a coiled metal spring.

Kurt glanced knowingly at Logan, but his friend shook his head. "Wait," the cop mouthed silently.

Catherine nodded, gesturing for him to hand her a weapon of her own, and Logan took a moment to roll his eyes exasperatedly before loaning her one of the half-dozen firearms that he had strapped to his body. The girl's delicate fingers looked entirely out of place on such a formidable-looking piece of hardware; the weapon was disproportionately big compared to Catherine's slender hands.

The breath caught in her throat as a voice began to reach her ears. Though she had never seen him in person (as Catherine had been sedated when Kurt had paid Capone a disastrous visit), she nevertheless knew on some basic, instinctive level that this voice was unmistakably that of Al Capone.

She did _not _like what she heard.

There was an ominous _click _as the mobster removed a Tommy gun from his attaché case, and his tone was so casual that he might as well have been discussing the weather. His men filed out behind him and took up positions using the vehicle as cover, and Scarface's mouth turned up in the beginnings of a smile as he cleared his throat loudly to make himself known.

"I know you're there, Wagner," Capone said flatly, sliding a fresh clip of ammunition in place, "And I think you should know that it takes more than a feeble plot like this to lull _me _into a trap. A nice effort, but an ultimately futile gesture all the same."

Logan didn't waste any time. His distinctive haircut resembled the horns of a demon from Hell as he rolled out from his hiding place and opened fire.

All hell promptly broke loose.

The entire world seemed to explode in a hail of whizzing bullets and flashing gunpowder, and Catherine instinctively ducked as the Teflon-coated rounds whizzed by her head and buzzed like a swarm of maddened hornets. There was an unimaginably loud, cacophonous clamor, almost like the roar of an angry lion as the docks erupted in a furious firefight, and Kurt reached his hand back just in time as a bullet chewed the place where it had rested just a moment before. Everything, from the scattered crates to nearby boats to the walls of storehouses were all perforated with holes as a hailstorm of gunfire reduced wood and plastic to shredded, mangled metal, and Moran had to strain to make himself heard over the sounds of cries and chattering, spitting gunfire.

"I'd say we've got their attention!" the Irish gangster yelled as he briefly emerged from cover to blindly spray the area with a clip from his sidearm. Capone's men, having taken cover around their employer's bulletproof vehicle, were giving as good as they got as they exchanged gunfire with their sworn nemesis. Whether by luck or superior marksmanship, Moran found his mark; a man to Capone's left gave a wet, gasping cry of surprise as three leaden slugs drilled into his flesh and stained the car's windows with jets of crimson, and he twitched spasmodically before collapsing like a fallen tree in a growing pool of his own gore.

Capone's submachine gun filled the damp, chilly night air with its horrible chattering and sputtering, and it spat fire and death in all directions as the mobster fired the weapon from his hip in a cool, calculated, semicircular spread that forced Kurt and his friends to dive for cover. Logan only narrowly missed an early appointment with the undertaker when a barrel of illegal whisky was practically shredded by Capone's volley; Logan, seeing an opportunity in the leaking barrel, dipped his head under the small trickle of alcohol that spurted forth and thus alleviated his nerves with a quick drink of bathtub booze.

Moran scowled with anger as a slug drilled right through the skull of one of his enforcers; the back of the man's head was practically blown to smithereens in a spectacular explosion of shattered bone and brains, and the body hit the dockside with a wet, sickening _splat _as Catherine looked away, sickened by the sight. Kurt gripped her hand in silent encouragement, his eyes radiating understanding as his cheeks turned an even deeper shade of navy, but his moment of tenderness turned to alarm when he realized what Logan was about to do.

Logan licked the remnants of alcohol from his lips, seeming to delight in his dodging the Grim Reaper's scythe only moments earlier, and he sported a weapon in both hands as he suddenly rolled out from behind the cover of the stack of crates so as to emerge to the _side _of Capone's men. The mobster turned too late to find himself outflanked as Kurt gave a cry of surprise, and Logan's grin was like that of a ravenous shark in a seal nursery as he charged forth with his fingers pumping the trigger.

Two of Capone's men promptly collapsed, their carcasses riddled with holes as the misty air became tinged with red, and Capone himself only narrowly escaped a sudden and violent death when he threw himself to one side to avoid Logan's hailstorm. The sleeve of the mobster's expensive Italian blazer now sported a perfectly round hole where a slug had drilled through the fabric, and Capone snarled his displeasure as he brought his weapon to bear-

-Meanwhile, Kurt balanced one of his deadly blades in one hand, sighting down the handle once to check his aim before he sent the weapon spinning end-over-end to embed itself in Capone's hand. The mobster's trigger finger was almost completely severed, and Capone let out a roar like a wounded beast as his men closed in to guard him. Keeping up a brave front of covering fire, Scarface's enforcers went to load their wounded chief into their strength enhanced vehicle; Capone, having had the car made to his own specifications, had made sure that it could withstand such punishment and thusly his Rolls Royce bore not even a scratch from the gunfire that would have shredded anything else to scrap metal moments ago. It acted like a shield once more as Capone's men tried to get him inside, but in one, crystalline moment, the mobster, by some trick of fate, locked eyes with Catherine for one terrifying moment. Capone would never admit it, but he would be haunted for days afterward by the vengefulness he saw smoldering in Catherine's kind face.

"This isn't over," Capone yelled over the din.

"It soon will be, you greasy Italian bastard!" Moran yelled back.

"Bugs?" Capone's voice took on a dangerous. "_You're _behind this?"

"Nah," Moran called cheerily. "I'm just providin' the muscle! I don't care who I work for as long as I get to take you down!"

"I'll see you run out of the States for this!" Capone screamed, cradling his wounded hand. "This isn't over!"

"Damn right it's not," Logan roared, taking aim at the vehicle's underside where he assumed the gasoline tank would be. "Die, Capone, and take yer thugs with you!"

The world seemed to slow to a crawl as Logan took aim and fired, and less than a second later a steel-jacketed round punched its way into several quarts of flammable petroleum liquid, which promptly ignited.

It was a rather spectacular explosion.

Capone only just managed to vacate the vehicle in time before it burst into flames, carried straight up into the air as the force of the eruption twisted and melted its metal chassis with a violent, ear-piercing _shriek_. Pieces of metal shrapnel and flaming debris sprayed in all direction like lethal fallout as the night became thick with the stench of gas, and the ruined car seemed to hover in midair for a second before its ruined frame crashed to the ground in a heap of fiery wreckage and charred sheet metal. Its entire length had been twisted and deformed, as if a giant had used it as its plaything, and more than one of Capone's men was cut down or wounded by the shards of glass and jagged steel. Sheets of roaring, furious flames latched on to anything that lay too close, and it seemed as though the entire dock had descended into Hell as line upon line of storehouses and docked watercraft caught fire and burst into waves of fire so hot that Kurt felt the fur on his face begin to singe. All around, the once-peaceful lakeside had been transformed into a charnel house of mangled bodies and fiery ruin; everywhere on looked, there was smoke and fire and death. Blood painted the jetty in pools and spatters of crimson gore as men on both sides were cut down in twos and threes; Kurt, sensing victory, motioned for Moran and his enforcers to follow him as he burst from cover with a bestial growl-

-But there was nothing. Capone, it seemed, had used the distraction caused by the explosion and subsequent firestorm to make good his escape. The only sign of his presence was a single, severed finger, lying abandoned and forlorn near the charred Rolls in a puddle of blood. The few men in Capone's employ who remained were quick to follow their boss's example; they retreated into the night but did so in good order, firing all the way and inflicting several more casualties on Moran's ranks before they quit the battlefield entirely.

The entire encounter had taken less than twenty minutes, and yet the scene before and after were as different as night and day. Kurt marveled in horrified fascination at what the fighting had wrought on Chicago's waterside district; it was a strange thing, some lucid part of his mind concluded, that the quarrels of men could cause such enormous devastation.

"Let's get out of here," Kurt muttered.

"Are you kidding?" Catherine demanded. "Capone escaped! We have to go after him!"

"And where do you suggest we start?" Moran demanded. "You forget, Capone still has most of this city bought and paid for! He has more than a dozen little hideyholes and safehouses that he can slither away to if things get rough; in all likelihood he's probably already holed up somewhere by now! But if you have _any _information that could help us, please," he gestured sarcastically to the rest of the group. "Share it."

Catherine looked away dejectedly, but Kurt, true to form, did his best to lift her spirits.

"Don't beat yourself up over it," he said. "We still sent Capone packing, didn't we?"

"Not yet," Logan's coarse tones cut the conversation short, and all in earshot fell silent as he continued, "He's suffered a defeat, yes, but he's far from bein' beat. It won't be long before he regroups and comes after Catherine again, an' this time, we won't have the advantage of takin' 'im off-guard. All we did here t'night was kick off the war; soon, Capone's gonna return fire, and it's gonna be even worse now that he's out for revenge."

Kurt abruptly got up, taking Catherine by the hand and helping her to her feet as well. A blast of hot air like a gust from hell-furnace doors made his trench-coat billow behind him like the wings of a fallen angel, and although his face was silhouetted against the flames, his eyes glittered dangerously in the firelight like twin stars of ill intent.

His voice, when he spoke, was like a hammer striking an anvil.

"_Let him come."_

A/N: Can you really blame me? I mean, it's a _detective _story; I had to get at least _one _good explosion in there somewhere! But will our heroes prevail over Al Capone? Will the gangster succeed in his nefarious mission? And who is the mole in Moran's network? Find out in coming chapters! And PLEASE REVIEW! I think we all know how hard fight scenes are to write, and if YOU have any ideas or suggestions on how I can do even better in the future, LET ME KNOW! YOUR OPINION COUNTS! ^^

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	16. Chapter 16

The Witness

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

_(A/N: This chapter's pretty graphic, even by my standards. Fair warning, guys.)_

Chapter 16: Abduction

It was a throbbing, pulsating headache that roused a thoroughly disheveled and battered-looking Kurt Wagner from the depths of unconsciousness. A soft moan escaped his parched lips, and he went to stand-

-Only to be thoroughly and unpleasantly surprised when he discovered that someone had _tied him to a chair. _Thick lengths of rough rope wound around Kurt's ankles, waist, arms and even his neck, and he gave a pained grunt of agony as his neck was jerked painfully backward by the restraints that had been clasped around his throat. Kurt's haste to stand proved to be a big mistake as the rope tightened around his larynx, and for a moment he was frightened that he'd accidentally broken his own neck before a deep, gasping breath reassured him that his windpipe was still in one piece.

The blood began to roar in Kurt's ears as panic threatened to seize him, but through the haze of fear and the mass of welts and bruises that covered his body, he managed to retain enough of his cold, calculating thought process to get a good look at his surroundings once his eyes had adjusted to the gloom.

His makeshift prison appeared to be either a basement or an attic, although the latter seemed unlikely since there didn't seem to be any windows around. There was practically no light here at all, save for the scant rays that seeped through the floorboards above his head. Rats, cockroaches and other assorted vermin could be heard skittering and scuttling in the darkness, and somewhere, a distant pipe gave off the telltale _drip-drip _of leaking water. A single door presented Kurt's only avenue of escape, but since whoever had abducted him had taken the time to _bolt the damn chair to the floor _it would make sense that it would already be locked.

Kurt gritted his teeth. His captor had obviously gone through a lot of trouble beforehand to ensure that an escape would be unlikely at best. Knowing his luck, there would probably be armed guards stationed outside, so even if Kurt managed to free himself he'd be outnumbered and outgunned. His weapons had presumably been confiscated, so he had nothing to defend himself with, either.

_How did I get here?_

Kurt felt the egg-sized lump on the back of his head scream in protest as he tried to clear his mind. _I remember…After the firefight at the docks..._

_Hours ago…_

_Kurt glanced at Logan as the group made a hasty retreat from the scene of carnage in the midst of wailing sirens. "I think it's time we made ourselves scarce."_

"_I got a car waiting out back," Moran offered. "Assuming you can all fit in the back seat, that is."_

_Kurt grimaced. "You and Catherine go on ahead," he told Logan quietly. "I'll have to walk back; there's no room in that car for all of us."_

"_You think that's a wise idea?" Logan muttered back. "Capone's guys could still be out there."_

"_I'll take a different route," Kurt assured him. "And I'll double back if I think I'm being followed. I won't risk leading Capone right to my doorstep."_

_Logan nodded shortly. "You'd better not," he warned. "Or I'll kill you myself."_

"_It's so nice to know that you care," Kurt retorted. "After all, nothing cements a friendship like the prospect of imminent death."_

_Logan gave him a rude gesture as he fell in step behind Catherine, and seconds later the sound of screeching tires told Kurt that his friends had succeeded in evading the tender mercies of Chicago's police department. A sigh of relief escaped him as he walked hurriedly down the ruined dockside, avoiding the pieces of flaming wreckage and charred corpses that blocked his path. Kurt held a hand to his nose as he balked at the stench of burning flesh, wood and hair, and his pace quickened further as the sounds of wailing sirens began to increase in volume._

_Something moved out of the corner of Kurt's vision, and he stopped in mid-step as his hand strayed to one of his knives. He turned completely around to face the perceived threat with his weapon ready-_

_-Nothing. The pier was entirely deserted, save for the hordes of oncoming police and the mutilated corpses of dead mobsters._

Kurt sighed. "Thought I was a goner for a moment there," he muttered. "Guess that's what I get for drinking Logan's brew right before a fight. That stuff could make a rhinoceros see things."

_WHANG!_

From behind, something collided with the back of Kurt's head so hard that he saw spots dance before his eyes. He staggered, stunned and disoriented, but nevertheless tried to turn and swiped out blindly with his blade-

-Al Capone, lead pipe in hand, easily dodged the wild swing a caught Kurt by the wrist, twisting so savagely that the bone threatened to snap completely in two. The stiletto clattered from Kurt's nerveless fingers as the mobster drove his pipe into Kurt's belly with a devastating swing, and the wind escaped the mutant's lips in an enormous _whoosh_ as he buckled with pain and surprise. Blood flecked the corner of Kurt's mouth as he gave a hoarse croak of protest, and as his vision began to grow dark, his nemesis lifted his chin with a finger so he could look him in the eye.

The mobster held up his bloody hand, still missing the trigger finger that Kurt had severed, and his eyes stared at Kurt with rabid hate as he vented his fury on the stricken detective. Once, twice, and three times the pipe lashed across Kurt's back, chest and head, and Kurt could hear his bones break as the metal slammed into his flesh. His jaw threatened to shatter into a million pieces as Capone caught him with a devastating back-handed swing, and the flickering flames created a gruesome scene as the mobster's shadow, projected against a nearby wall, matched perfectly its owner's movements as Capone thrashed his hated enemy.

Blood bubbled up from between Kurt's lips as Capone drove his boot into his ravaged body with a contemptuous kick. Two pairs of strong hands seized him as a filthy rag was stuffed into his mouth.

"Pick that up and get it into the car," Capone ordered his cronies as he took a moment to quite literally spit in Kurt's face. "I have _big _plans for our friend Mr. Wagner…"

_Now…_

Kurt felt the blood chill in his veins as the memory faded. This was quite possibly the worst thing that could have happened; Logan probably had no idea where he was, and Kurt had no way of contacting any of his friends for help. He was a lamb in the middle of a den of lions, and this realization only encouraged the injured detective to renew his struggle against his bonds.

Kurt gasped in agony as a shockwave of pain lanced across the left side of his chest. Evidently Capone's welcoming gesture had broken several ribs. Kurt stiffened, trying not to move for fear of having his internal organs punctured by the broken bones, only to bite his lip so hard that the skin split when his head wound caused another wave of nausea to roll over him. The room spun, Kurt's mouth began to grow thick with the coppery taste of blood, and if Kurt had had anything in his belly he probably would have vomited as his wounds threatened to take their toll.

Something _creaked _in the darkness, and Kurt looked up to see a bright lantern shining in his face.

"My, my, my," Capone tutted sadly. "You _are _an ugly one, aren't you?"

Kurt averted his gaze and clamped his mouth resolutely shut.

A flicker of annoyance passed over the mobster's face. "Wide awake, I see," he murmured, gesturing for one of his lackeys to wheel in a small cart. "Excellent. I was actually beginning to fear that you'd succumbed to your injuries, Mr. Wagner."

Kurt tried to bite him as his hand approached, but someone seized his head and held it back as Capone removed one of the detective's knives from the tray. The platter in question was laden with a variety of evil-looking instruments that would have looked more at home in a surgery room than a crime lord's basement, and Kurt let out an involuntary shout of surprise as Capone seized his hand and pressed the blade into his flesh with a sawing motion.

Blood began to spatter onto the floor, and Kurt let out a full-fledged scream as the blade bit deeper and deeper into his flesh. Capone took his time, sawing one way and then the next, and when the knife's edge bit into the bone, the agony was so great that tears sprouted out of the corner of Kurt's vision and ran down the sides of his face. His chest heaved in ragged sobs in between his screams, and Kurt's voice grew ragged and rough as the strain on his vocal cords began to show. He screeched and howled until his mouth grew dry, but the noise did little to deter Capone from his grisly task.

With a savage wrench, Capone severed the finger completely with a bone-jarring, sickening _snap_ and waved it tauntingly in front of Kurt's face. The detective's entire body heaved and shuddered with sobs of sheer excruciation as jets of blood spurted from the severed digit onto Kurt's face, and Capone's tone was casual and light as he callously wiped the bloody knife on Kurt's fur.

"I am missing one of my fingers," he said. "And now, so are you."

Kurt had never been in so much pain in his entire life. His tongue lolled about his fangs as his breathing grew raspy and harsh, and Capone savored his discomfort before continuing, "I know that you can tell me where the girl is. Cooperate, and things might not have to become any more unpleasant."

"Go…to…Hell…" Kurt gasped. "Tell…you…nothing…"

Capone shrugged as one of his cronies handed him a small scalpel. "Well, if that's your position," he replied, grabbing Kurt's face by the chin and using the instrument's edge to slice into the mutant's cheek. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

Kurt tried to keep Catherine's image before his eyes as Capone flayed open the skin of his face, and a long, red line of blood dripped onto the collar of his shirt as he bit his teeth so hard that he could hear his molars creaking. The sleeve of Kurt's coat gave way with a loud _rip _as Capone's men tore it clean off, and Kurt jolted in his chair with a screech as the mobster plunged the instrument deep into the muscle of his forearm and twisted it like a screwdriver.

Kurt writhed and twisted helplessly as a long, deep cut began to drip onto the blood-stained floor, and as he began to scream again, Capone gleefully stuffed a gag into his mouth to muffle the noise.

"Ah, ah, a-a-ah," he chided his prisoner. "All that noise could give you away, and we wouldn't want that, now would we?"

Kurt's eyes began to tear again as Capone drew the blade down onto the skin of his hand, and the hair on Kurt's arm was practically soaked with blood as Capone forced his head back to deepen his discomfort. He waited until the wound was bleeding freely before he removed the gag and said flatly. "Where is the girl?"

Kurt had to make an effort to speak coherently through the haze of pain. "Tell…you…nothing," he gasped, sucking in a mouthful of air.

_WHAM!_

Kurt screeched as Capone drove the blade through his hand so hard that the injured limb was pinned to the chair, and his tormentor slowly twisted his instrument from side to side as his victim bucked so hard that his seat shook.

"Where is the girl?" Capone asked again, as though he had not heard.

Kurt's chest heaved with ragged sobs as he forced out through clenched fangs, "_Tell…you…nothing!"_

A salt shaker suddenly appeared in Capone's other hand, and Kurt's tongue waggled almost comically as the crime lord began to liberally sprinkle his wounds with it. The stinging pain was almost ungodly in its intensity, and Kurt bit his tongue so hard that it began to bleed. The floor underfoot began to grow sticky with a purple crust of congealed, oxidized blood that grew into a large lake of crimson gore, and Kurt silently wished that Capone would grow tired of his game and finish him off, if only so that his suffering would end.

A sardonic sneer formed on the mobster's face as he suddenly pulled back. "I think that's enough for now," he murmured. "I'll leave you to your misery for a while before I return; perhaps when your wounds have begun to fester with infection, you will be more inclined to answer my questions."

"Don't…get…your hopes up," Kurt snarled.

"A hard one, eh?" Capone arched an eyebrow. "Well, don't worry. We'll cure you of _that _before long. After all…"

The man leaned so close that Kurt could feel his breath in his ear. "_I have nothing but time."_

A/N: Before I say anything else, I want to give full for the idea for this chapter to an anonymous reviewer named "cds," who was generous and kind enough to suggest a plotline involving Kurt's abduction in his review. This installment is the end result of his submission, and I wish to publicly thank and credit him for submitting it. Cds, if you're out there, this chapter was on me. ^^ But will Kurt escape? Will his friends find him? Or will Capone break him first? Find out in coming chapters! And PLEASE REVIEW! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW! ^^

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	17. Chapter 17

The Witness

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

"_My dear boy, I wish that I could tell that the tragedy that has best your life is over, but I fear the darkest hours of Hell lie before you." –Sir John Talbot, "The Wolfman," (2010)_

Chapter 17: Murphy's Law

Catherine's footsteps were slow as she paced anxiously around the kitchen of Kurt's small apartment. Around and around she went, tracing and then retracing the same path over and over, and the waves of anxiety that poured off of her were so distracting that Logan, seated in a chair nearby, finally dropped his newspaper with exasperation.

"Will you stop that?" he asked grumpily. "Yer makin' me nervous."

"I can't help it," Catherine shook her head. "Kurt should have been back a long time ago. He said he'd meet us here, didn't he?"

Logan straightened, intrigued. "Yeah, come to think of it, he _has _been gone a bit longer than I expected. Wonder what's keepin' him?"

"Something's not right about all this, Logan," Catherine's tone became high-pitched with worry. "I can feel it."

"Think we ought to go out and look for him?"

"Yeah," Catherine nodded, her resolve strengthening. "Yeah, I do."

"Don't bother," Bugs Moran, who had been silent until now, interrupted the flow of conversation bluntly. "He's already dead, most likely."

"_What?" _Catherine made no attempt to conceal her horror as her brain worked out what Moran was implying.

"My guess is that Capone's guys were lying in wait for your blue buddy after the scrap at the docks," the gangster said. "We never saw Wagner leave, after all. What prob'ly happened was that the goons jumped Wagner when 'is back was turned an' hauled 'im off somewhere; the snoop's probably sittin' at the bottom of Lake Erie by now, with a cinderblock chained to his ankle and a bullet in his belly."

Logan paled as the awful realization of his friend's likely predicament dawned upon him with merciless clarity. "Wagner's not the sort to be late for a rendezvous. I hate to say it, but Moran's theory makes sense. And if Kurt's been captured, he'll put us _all _at risk if he spills the beans. He's the mastermind behind this war with Capone; only he knows what the endgame is supposed to be."

Catherine felt her heart sink into her stomach. _Oh, God, no…Not Kurt…_

Logan stood abruptly, and Catherine's moment of heart-searing panic changed into a bolt of wild, unfettered hope at what he said next. "But I do disagree with you on one thing, Moran. Kurt ain't dead yet, on account of Capone wantin' to pump him for information before he whacks 'im proper-like. Scarface ain't one to turn down an inside source lightly, and if he's been tryin' to get Kurt t'talk, then there's a chance that we might be able to save him."

"I'll get my men to start the car," Moran nodded shortly in a business-like manner. "I got a few ideas of where Capone might be holed up; he's got several places throughout the city that he likes to crawl back to after a fight."

"Just don't get in the way," Logan snarled back, sliding a clip into place in his firearm as urgency for his mission overtook him. "The last thing I need is your thugs underfoot, Moran."

"I could say the same about Wagner's girlfriend over there," Moran replied coldly. "She ain't bin nothin' but trouble ever since I met 'er; the way I see it, all this is _her _fault anyway! If her daddy hadn't been stupid enough t'git himself put six feet under, none of us would be here in the first place!"

Logan clenched his fist. Despite that he and Moran were technically working together against a common foe, the grizzled cop had _never _wanted to kill another human being so badly. It took all his self-restraint not to level his gun at Moran's forehead and paint the wall with his brain, and Catherine, seeing the murderous look in Logan's eye, tried to defuse the situation.

"The longer we squabble, the more danger Kurt is in," she reminded them. "Or have you forgotten that?"

Logan cringed at the reprimand but said nothing as Moran and what was left of his gang piled into the room. The thugs were armed with a motley assortment of weaponry that gave them a thoroughly savage and uncivilized appearance, and Catherine mentally compared them to Vikings or other Dark Age barbarians rather than twentieth-century city-dwellers. It was no wonder that Moran was second in power only to Capone himself, with such men in his employ; brutality and casual violence were second nature to these people.

"After you," Moran said to Logan, bowing mockingly as he held the door.

"I don't think so," Logan growled. "You go first. I don't feel very comfortable havin' you behind me."

Catherine followed the exodus from Kurt's apartment, trying valiantly to keep her imagination from running away from her as it threatened to fill her thoughts with images of Kurt's possible demise. It was very likely, she thought with a moment of heart-stopping fear, that he was dead already. No doubt Kurt had refused to give Capone whatever information he might have asked for; how could she be sure that he was still alive after such obstinacy? And Kurt's smart mouth would not have helped, either. What if her friend had provoked his tormentor one time too many?

Catherine felt as though she were going to vomit. She had _never _felt so anxious and sick with worry before in her entire life. The agony of _not knowing _was eating away at her heart like a corrosive acid, and every second became an hour as her worry for her friend threatened to completely consume her from the inside out. Her heart began to beat so fast that the blood roared in Catherine's ears, and her palms became slick with a sheen of nervous, enervating sweat that made her hands clammy and cold in the early-morning air.

She silently kicked herself. Why had Catherine not realized what had happened to him earlier? What if Kurt was dead because of her sluggishness to act?

If that was the case, she doubted she would be able to live with herself. The guilt would haunt her waking hours and infest her dreams every day and night for the rest of her life.

Kurt would have died without ever knowing how much he'd come to mean to her.

Catherine cursed herself bitterly. All she would have needed was a few moments alone with him, maybe even less. Why had she not told him how she felt about him before? Why had she not been brave enough to tell him everything?

There was so much unsaid between the two of them. So much left undone.

What if Catherine had lost that opportunity forever?

She scrubbed vigorously at her face, determined _not _to cry in front of Logan and Moran's gang. They already thought her weak because she was a woman, and sobbing like a baby would hardly help her case.

There would, Catherine knew, be plenty of time for _that _later, if her worst fears were realized.

And if that happened, her heart would break into a thousand pieces, shattered beyond repair for the rest of her life.

_Meanwhile…_

It would be an exercise in absurd futility to even attempt to describe the thick, suffocating black pall of misery that settled over the ravaged and bedraggled form of Kurt Wagner as he lay in a state of hazy semi-consciousness from his excruciations in the bowels of Al Capone's lair. Kurt's fur was matted with a semi-solid crust of partially dried blood, and a wave of steadily throbbing pain emanated from the gore-encrusted stump where his finger used to be. His tongue ran unconsciously over his cracked lips, and he silently prayed for water as his throat grew dry and raspy.

Droplets from a leaky pipe dripped onto Kurt's forehead, and he practically fell over himself in his rush to open his mouth to receive the life-giving liquid. The water itself was nasty, brackish and foul, but to the exhausted and dehydrated Kurt, it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. He lay there like that for quite some time, catching the drips on his tongue until his thirst was momentarily assuaged, and when Kurt was satisfied that he'd saved himself from dehydration, he gave a shuddering, rasping sigh of relief and sagged back in the chair that he'd been bound to.

For a moment, an image of _her _danced before his eyes, and some lucid part of Kurt's brain realized that he was hallucinating; there was no way Catherine could be here. But in his wretched state and starved for company, Kurt wasn't about to turn away visitors even if they happened to be a figment of his fevered mind.

He could see her beautiful face, her shining smile, and for a moment, Kurt's breath caught in his throat as he realized that, if Capone had his way, he would go to his grave without having come clean with Catherine about just how much she'd come to mean to him.

Kurt sobbed, but his eyes remained dry; he'd long since drained all his tears away at the hands of Al Capone and his tender mercies. There was nothing left to shade over his grief, nothing with which Kurt could give voice to his despair, for the misery that enveloped him was of a kind and caliber that few men are unlucky enough to know.

Kurt felt as though a sword of pure, unfettered _sadness _had been driven through his chest. A crushing weight gripped his heart in an iron fist and dragged it down into his innards as his spirit sank into soul-searing despair; Kurt's misery was so black that not even the light of the Sun seemed able to escape its thrall.

_Just a few minutes alone with her, _Kurt moaned to himself. _That's all I would have needed, just a few moments. But I was too scared to tell her…_

His breath caught in his gullet again. _I should have told her how I felt from the beginning, while I still had the chance. And now I'll never be able to. I'm going to die here, and Catherine will __never __know how much I care for her…_

His chest began to heave with dry sobs. Kurt had _never _known such an intense sadness before. It was _consuming _him, body and soul, devouring him from the inside out like a terrible kind of blood-drinking parasite.

Her face appeared before his eyes again, and if Kurt's hand had been unfettered, he would have reached out to touch it. He could picture perfectly every detail of the one he had grown to love; the scent of her hair, her tinkling laughter, her strong and willful personality…

Kurt realized, belatedly, that he wanted to be with Catherine Pryde more than he had ever wanted anything else in his life. He _needed _her, as much as he needed air and water, and perhaps even more so. Kurt's heart beat faster just by _looking _at her; how is it possible, he thought with no small amount of awe, that one person could _feel _for another with such great intensity?

It was quite an extraordinary sensation.

_Not that it matters, _Kurt thought, a fresh wave of despondency rolling over him. _I'm probably going to die here anyway._

Something _creaked, _and Kurt raised his head just long enough to snap it back down again as Al Capone himself interrupted his mournful musings. The gangster's tone was so polite that he might have been on a social call rather than interrogating a prisoner, and Kurt felt loathing make his skin crawl as the mobster hung his jacket on a nearby coat-rack.

"I trust we are feeling a little better today?" Capone inquired.

"I've been better," Kurt shot back. "If you're so concerned, why don't you tell your goon squad to get me a drink?"

"I would be happy to," Capone nodded, "_if_ you tell me where the girl is."

Kurt's gaze became flat and defiant. "Then I will die of thirst."

"Why go to such lengths to protect a person you hardly know?" Capone turned a chair around and folded his arms over its back. "You only met her, what, a week ago? Two, at most? Why go through such suffering for a stranger? Do you care for her?"

Kurt averted his gaze and said nothing, and Capone's lips split into a cruel smile as he realized from whence stemmed his captive's defiance.

"_You fancy her,_" the mobster said, his voice taunting. "For the life of me, why didn't I figure it out sooner? It all makes sense. But you must realize," he added, kneeling so that he and Kurt were face-to-face. "It would be…_such a shame…_for you to die without letting her know how you feel about her."

_The thought's crossed my mind, believe me,_ Kurt thought wryly.

A pair of evil-looking tweezers appeared in Capone's hand. "Well, if your mind is made up, then you leave me no recourse," Capone sighed, flexing the instrument experimentally. "I've half a mind to open you up and see just what makes a creature like you _tick…_"

A/N: *Sniff* So sad…Will Catherine get there in time? Will she and Kurt ever be together? And will Capone ever pay for what he's done? Find out in coming chapters! And PLEASE REVIEW! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW! ^^

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	18. Chapter 18

The Witness

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 18: Endgame, Part 1

The engine of Moran's car sputtered steadily as it cruised down the empty street. The Irish mobster's face was cool and emotionless as his eyes moved like roulette balls in their sockets, flicking from side to side as he sought any indication of the presence of his sworn enemy, and his hand gripped the wheel lightly as he hummed a tune under his breath.

Regardless of Kurt's current predicament, Moran hated Capone with every cell in his body. The prospect of bringing the fight to Scarface was like _Christmas _to him. Visions of his enemy's demise flashed before his sight as Moran brought the vehicle into a painfully slow and ponderous left turn, and a grim smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as Catherine asked, "You're sure Capone's here? The entire block looks completely deserted."

"So did the docks, lady, and look what happened there," Moran replied pointedly. "No, Scarface is here all right; this part o' town lies in the center of the little kingdom that Capone's carved out for himself. And for the record," he added, "no man alive has been fightin' Capone longer than me. I know how he thinks. I know how he moves. Hell, I know him as well as I know the corn on my left foot. You want my help? Then follow my lead and shut yer trap."

"Somehow, the idea of 'following your lead' doesn't comfort me," Catherine replied coolly. Logan, of course, knew that the cold façade was an act that Catherine was putting on in order to prevent herself from falling to pieces, but he didn't feel obligated to share that with anyone else.

Everyone had their own different coping mechanisms, after all.

The car lurched slowly to a halt behind a dumpster that had apparently seen better days, and Moran motioned for his men to get out as someone began to approach them with steady, measured footsteps.

Logan's hand flashed to his gun, but Moran caught his wrist in an iron grip. "Easy, now," he said. "He's one of mine."

"An assassin?" Logan asked warily, knowing what kind of men were drawn to Moran's employ.

"A scout, idiot," Moran sneered, motioning toward the thugs behind him. "_These _guys are the muscle."

The scout in question, a lean, thin-faced man with a shifty air about him, leaned in close and whispered something in Moran's ear. His boss's face lit up like that of a child on Christmas morning at what he heard, and Catherine allowed herself to feel a twinge of hope for a precious second before Moran relayed the news to them.

"My boy here says that there've been guys going in and out of that building across the street all day," Moran said. "Which is unusual, by the way, seeing as how the entire block is schedule for demolition."

"Capone's men?"

"Yup," Moran nodded. "And heavily armed, to boot."

"When are they not?" Logan grumbled, sliding a clip of steel-jacked ammunition into his weapon.

"Don't worry," Moran couldn't resist a smug smirk as he nodded at a pair of headlights that suddenly glared down the alleyway. "I came prepared this time around. Before we set off, I made a few calls from blue-boy's phone."

More muscle-bound enforcers, scar-faced and lean, piled out onto the pavement with several ominous-looking crates in tow. Logan didn't wait for more of Moran's gloating; he ripped the lid off one of the boxes with his bare hands and ran a finger over the rows of Army-surplus fragmentation grenades that lay neatly packed inside.

"Do I even wanna know where you got all this?"

"I had some guys hit up a military depot a few days back when I had a feeling that trouble was coming my way," Moran explained. "I thought this stuff might come in handy someday; turns out I was right. This is all surplus from the war in Europe. The Army brass made more ordnance by the time we sent our boys over there that they couldn't figure out what to do with it all. If Capone wants a war, then by God, I'll _give _him a fucking _war._"

"You stole it all," Catherine clarified, narrowing her eyes.

Moran was utterly unapologetic. "It's what I do."

Logan took a belt of balefully silent hand grenades and slung it over his shoulder, a vicious grin cracking his lips. "I hope you don't expect a pat on the back, Moran."

The mobster idly tossed an unlit Molotov cocktail from one hand to the other as his men armed themselves with a variety of military-grade weaponry. There was not a single firearm amongst them that went below a rate of three rounds a second, and Logan grudgingly gave Moran credit where it was due: the leader of the Irish mob was _not _messing around this time.

Catherine selected a weapon of her own, and Logan quietly marveled that, despite having been in a similar situation just days before, the girl showed not a trace of the fear or apprehension that she surely must have been feeling.

Logan studied her for a second. _Is this the same Catherine Pryde that Wagner rescued? _He asked himself. _Seems to me that she's certainly done her fair share of growing up…_

Moran caught his attention and gave him a knowing nod. "We'll approach the building from two different directions," he muttered from out of the side of his mouth, shaking his bottle of combustibles for emphasis. "When I give the signal, we'll hurl a few of these inside and enter during the confusion. I'll lead my boys through the front entrance and keep Capone's pigs occupied while you and the girl git Wagner outta there. If you go around the side of the building, there should be a small rear entrance that you can use. It's probably locked, so you'll have to break it down. Once you've gotten inside, you'll see a flight of stairs on your left; they'll will take you down to the basement, which is prob'ly where Wagner is being cooped up."

"How do you know the layout of the place?" Logan couldn't help but ask. "We ain't even gotten inside yet."

"It used to be _my _place," Moran growled. "Capone _stole _it from me."

"That makes a lot more sense," Logan grunted, peering over his shoulder and raising his voice slightly. "Catherine, you're with me."

She moved to take up a place at Logan's shoulder, and with almost anticlimactic silence, the large group dispersed and headed in separate directions. There were no battle-cries, no shots fired in excitement, no gleeful anticipation of battle.

The past few days had quenched even Logan's penchant for bloodletting. He had no desire for any more, and only agreed to enter the fight so he could save Kurt.

Catherine followed his lead as he led her on a roundabout path through the back-streets, and the route was so winding and labyrinthine that it became somewhat disorienting. It took them only a few moments for them to reach the place that Moran had indicated, and sure enough, a sturdy wooden door blocked their passage inside.

Logan jiggled the handle. "Locked," he muttered. "Figures."

"Can you bust it open?" Catherine asked.

"Sure I can," Logan nodded, "but not before Moran has Capone's _undivided _attention…"

_Meanwhile…_

On the other side of Capone's base of operations, Bugs Moran was practically giddy with excitement. How many days and nights, he wondered, had he lain awake in his bed and fantasized about taking the fight to his most hated enemy? How many times had he _dreamed _of the day when he would burn Capone's network down around his ears and dance a jig on the Italian gangster's grave?

Wordlessly, Moran offered his Molotov cocktail to one of his underlings, and the man, having been in the Irishman's employ long enough to know a cue when he saw one, fished a cigarette lighter out of his pocket and waved the flame under the gasoline-soaked rag that Moran had stuffed inside the empty Coca-Cola bottle.

That seemed to be some kind of signal, because as one, Moran's men pulled the pins on their grenades and lobbed them expertly into the air. Moran threw his own fire-starting projectile at a nearby window, and the makeshift weapon left a trail of blazing fuel in its wake as it sailed end-over-end in the air.

The window itself made an extremely loud, satisfying _crash _as the bottle shattered it into a million pieces, and moments later the white-hot mixture of flammable materials exploded in a mushroom-shaped fireball that spread flames in all directions, burning fiercely.

The effect that it had on the structure's occupants was not unlike someone kicking over a hill of fire ants.

Sheets of fire erupted out of a nearby window as screams of pain and surprise made Moran's eyes dance with a malevolent light, and several fist-sized grenades soared through the busted window only to detonate less than five seconds later. Men were shredded and mutilated by the hailstorm of razor-sharp metal shrapnel, and the walls were painted with spatters of blood as the corpses of the slain, mutilated almost beyond recognition, slumped to the ground like discarded sandbags. In less time than it took one to write it, Capone's base had been turned into a veritable charnel house of rent flesh and spilled gore, and one of Scarface's men, his body coated in flames, screamed in agony as he charged blindly out the door and into the street.

Moran calmly drew his pistol, clicked the hammer back, and shot him.

The slain gangster crumpled as the tongues of fire continued to lick hungrily at his ravaged corpse, and Moran stepped callously upon him as two of his enforcers ripped the front door clean off of its hinges and sent it spinning into the street. One needed to shield his face from the fierce temperatures as Moran stepped into a scene right out of Dante's _Inferno; _the walls and furniture were splashed, coated and spotted with waves of crimson gore, and the bodies of the victims of his surprise attack looked as though they had been savaged by animals.

Moran fired his weapon defiantly into the air. _"Come out and fight, Capone!" _he howled, the veins in his eyes bulging with the sheer strength of his hate. _"You wanted a scrap, and now I'm givin' you one! FIGHT US NOW!"_

On the other side of the street, Logan cracked a sardonic grin as the sounds of chaos reached him. "I think that's the signal," he said, nodding to Catherine and almost cleaving the back door in two with a powerful kick. "C'mon!"

She followed him inside, but Catherine almost immediately covered her nose as the ominous smell of smoke stung her nostrils. Her mind began to race a thousand miles a minute as her ears sang with the blood that roared inside them, and she bit her lip with worry as she and Logan hurtled to one side and down the staircase that Moran had pointed out to them.

_Please, Kurt._

_Just hang on a little longer._

_You can't die. Not now. Not when there's so much I need to tell you…_

A/N: I know you're all probably thinking that I'm an evil, horrible person for making you all wait another chapter, and you know what? YOU'RE RIGHT! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA! *Insert scary organ music* But seriously, the next chapter will be up in its own good time, so don't stress out too much, okay? ^^ But will Kurt still have breath in his body when Catherine reaches him? Will she and Logan be able to get him out safely? And will Capone escape again? Find out in coming chapters! And PLEASE REVIEW! IF _YOU _have ANY ideas or suggestions on how I could make this story even better, LET ME KNOW! ^^

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	19. Chapter 19

The Witness

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 19: Endgame, Part Two

In the bowels of his makeshift torture chamber, Al Capone stiffened with surprise and alarm as the telltale chatter of gunfire echoed dimly from the street above. The sound itself was muffled due to Capone having stored his prisoner underground, but having made a career in violence and terror, the gangster knew a fight when he heard one.

He put aside a bloodied pair of tweezers, its edge coated with gore, and gave the barely conscious and dazed Kurt a reassuring pat on the head. "I'm not sure if you can hear me," Capone murmured, "but it seems as though I no longer have any need to waste my resources trying to extract information from you. Miss Pryde, it seems, has come to pay me a visit, and I would feel appalled if I did not treat her to the _warmest _sort of hospitality."

There was a loud crash and a sucking _fwoosh _as an upstairs window as demolished by a well-thrown bottle of sundry combustibles, and even from a distance Capone could feel vaguely the heat on his face as the fire began to devour and engulf everything it its path.

Capone's face split into a cruel smile as he nodded to one of his men, and Kurt awoke with a gasp and a hoarse scream as a wet, strong-smelling liquid roused him out of his injured daze.

"I'm afraid you've outlived your usefulness, Mr. Wagner," Capone told him flatly. "I no longer need you to tell me anything now that your girlfriend has come to visit me in person. The gasoline that I have just soaked you with will ensure that you do not survive to incriminate me once the fire upstairs begins to spread. It promises to be quite a spectacular display of pyrotechnics, wouldn't you agree? Surely you understand that I simply cannot have loose ends running around that could jeopardize my organization; why, look at all the trouble Miss Pryde alone has caused me these past few days! But I cannot help but think," He added with a smirk, "just how tragic it must be, for the two of you to die so close together and yet, in some ways, so far apart at the same time."

Kurt, realizing with a jolt what Capone was saying, _lurched_ forward in his chair only to have his bonds yank him back into place. "_I'll kill you!" _he roared.

"I very much doubt it," Capone replied coldly, kicking over the gasoline can and spilling its contents all over the floor. "Good day to you, Mr. Wagner."

The thug at Capone's side promptly slipped a pair of brass knuckles over his hand and slugged Kurt hard across the face. The mutant sagged, knocked instantly unconscious, and Capone gazed at him scornfully as he turned to leave.

"I thought he'd _never _shut up," the gangster muttered. "I don't think I've ever met anyone so irritating. Follow me, gentlemen," he added, beckoning for his lackeys to follow. "It is time we took our leave."

The crime lord removed a pistol from the folds of his coat and gripped it expertly as he headed up the stairs, and the sheer force of Capone's malice and ill intent swirled about him like a great, invisible cloak as he left his prisoner, and his own men, to their respective fates…

_Meanwhile…_

The upstairs level of Al Capone's base of operations had, in the wake of Moran's sudden and vicious attack, been turned into a scene that could rival even timeless slasher movies like _Saw _and _Friday the Thirteenth _in its sheer level of carnage. It was almost a battlefield in the middle of Hell of itself; bodies, whether clubbed, stabbed, or shot to death, lay in growing puddles of blood that stained the carpet and painted the walls in crimson splatters; the streaks of red made the building seem as though a psychopathic artist had used it as his canvas, and the destruction and death that consumed it only grew with each stroke of his evil brush. The fires that had been started by Moran's volley of delayed explosive projectiles had grown so large that the tongues of flame licked hungrily out of shattered windows and cast their macabre glow on the street outside. Death was everywhere, the atmosphere poisoned with the horrid stink of charred flesh and burning hair, and the heat grew so awful and oppressive that the survivors on both sides had to fight with streams of sweat staining their clothes.

Moran, leading the charge in his usual flair for the dramatic, practically disintegrated the front door into a spray of needle-like splinters as he tore it clean off its hinges and threw it across the arm. Gunfire erupted in the tight, enclosed space, and with no cover to speak of, casualties quickly began to mount in a bloody butcher's bill of destruction and death.

One of Moran's men jerked and twisted spasmodically as more than ten shots _thudded _sickeningly into his chest, and each round was heralded by a jetting, high-pressured spray of gore that erupted from the ruined flesh as it hit its mark. The unfortunate gunman collapsed like a discarded puppet, killed before he'd even managed to cross the threshold, and moments later the gangster who'd murdered him crumpled to the ground as his skull was practically disintegrated by a steel-jacked round from Moran's pistol. Bits of bone stung the Irishman's cheeks and stained his suit with entrails, and this gave him a decidedly deranged appearance that Jason Voorhees or Freddy Krueger would probably have been quite proud of.

Moran's eyes danced with malicious joy as he reveled in the destruction he wrought upon his most hated foes, drinking in their cries and screams of agony like the sweetest wine he'd ever tasted, and he laughed as he mowed them down. Once, twice, and then three times his finger squeezed the trigger as he reaped a harvest of murder, and as the floor underfoot became thick with the bodies of the slain, the fight grew even more vicious in nature.

There was no quarter given or asked on either side that day. Capone's men and Moran's alike died so close together that their blood ran in partially-coagulated pools of gore that made the ground underfoot so treacherously slick that the surviving combatants had to fight to keep their balance.

Moran, in the heat of battle, had long forgotten any agreement or obligation that he owed to Kurt, Logan or anyone else. He was providing a much-needed distraction, but he no longer cared; all that kept him going now was his undying hatred of Al Capone and his thirst for vengeance.

It was a thirst that would only be slaked with the blood of his sworn and most bitter enemy. Bugs Moran despised and loathed Al Capone more than anyone or anything else on the planet. In only a handful of occasions throughout human history had one man desired to kill another with such fervor.

One of Capone's men made the mistake of standing too close, and Moran seized the opportunity by falling upon him like a ravenous wolf and nearly caving his skull in with a brutal pistol-whip to the back of the head. There was a nauseating, wet _crack _as the back of the man's head splintered and fractured, and Moran, running high on adrenaline and the sheer depths of his hate, lifted his victim bodily and threw him across the room; the slain man's corpse collided with several of his comrades, who went down with a startled cry amidst a jumble of tangled limbs.

Moran didn't waste any time. With a leap and a bound, he closed in on the disoriented mobsters and shot them one by one in the head in quick succession as they lay stunned upon the blood-soaked floor. Sweat rolled down Moran's face in globular drops as both the fighting and the heat grew hotter, and he gave a maddened, adrenalized laugh as a bullet made a sound like an angry wasp while it sailed by his left ear.

"Who taught you how to shoot?" Moran taunted, ducking and emptying the clip of his weapon in the shooter's direction. "Your grandmother?"

_At the same time…_

Catherine felt as though her feet could not move fast enough as she and Logan practically _flew _down the staircase. It was a race against time, she knew; if Kurt was not rescued soon, he would be either burned alive or die from smoke inhalation. The fire had been an unintended consequence of Moran's eagerness to finally be rid of his hated enemy, and she cursed him for it under her breath as she urged Logan on to greater efforts.

"Can't you move any faster?" she asked harshly.

"I'm goin', I'm goin'!" Logan called back, increasing his pace. "Take a left at the next hallway; that's probably where Wagner is being held!"

"I've got a better idea," Catherine replied, her breath coming fast as she approached the landing and pointed down the hall. "You go to the right, and I'll go to the left. That way, if one of us does not find Kurt, the other can still get him out in time."

"Good idea," Logan nodded, "But hurry. This place is going to go up like a firecracker before the night's much older."

"All the more reason to split up," Catherine's tone was flat as she took her leave. "Good luck."

Logan, having neither the time nor the inclination for sentimentality, gave her a quick nod. "You too."

Then she turned to the left and was swallowed up by the gloom, her footsteps receding into the darkness.

Logan didn't waste any time, either. He was off and running again before he had finished speaking, filled with renewed worry and concern for his friend. He didn't give Catherine a second glance as he sped off on his way, checking one room and then another without any sign of Kurt's captivity; though these impromptu cells had obviously seen other unfortunate occupants, there was no sign of their most recent detainee. The cop swore colorfully under his breath as he felt his chance slipping away, and he was almost about to lose hope when-

Logan stopped in the middle of his search, hesitating with his hand on yet another doorknob. His nostrils twitched as a searing, strong scent began to permeate the air with its heavy odor.

His brain began to churn like a blender mixing concrete as his nostrils flared. _Is that…motor oil? Gasoline? But why would that be all the way down here…?_

The realization hit Logan like a nine millimeter slug. _Oh, __SHIT, __it's a trick! Capone's probably rigged this entire place to blow! I'm standing in the basement of one gigantic bomb! Trust a scumbag like Capone to come up with a thing like this!_

_I don't have much time, _Logan thought with a flash of panic. _For all I know, we might be out of time already. But if I follow the smell, there's a chance that I'll find Kurt…or his corpse._

_Let's hope it hasn't come to that, _he added silently, his legs pumping like pistons as he broke into a flat-out run. Logan wasn't built for running, to be sure, but he could still manage an impressive sprint when the need arose.

And that need was never greater than it was in his current situation. Logan was almost an indistinct _blur _as he pushed himself to the limit, the reek of diesel fuel guiding his way like a lighthouse beacon as it grew stronger and stronger with each passing step. Logan's heart began to thunder in his chest from both his exertions and his fear of what might have befallen his friend, and when something _splashed _loudly beneath his boots, Logan screeched to a sudden halt and knelt to examine the shallow puddle that he'd almost slipped and fallen in.

The cop dipped a finger in the dubious-looking liquid and sniffed it lightly. The scent was unmistakably the same as the one that had led him here in the first place, and his eyes followed the trail until he noticed the door from underneath which the pool had seeped.

It was ajar.

The very _air _seemed to slow Logan down as he got to his feet so fast that he almost stumbled and fell, and his breath came in ragged, hoarse gasps of sheer anxiety as he gazed upon the battered, semi-conscious and silhouetted form that lay strapped to a chair just a few feet away from him. Logan couldn't tell yet if Kurt was breathing or not; if the cop had been a particularly religious sort, he would have sent up a quick prayer of hope to any deity that happened to be listening at the time.

Arranged around Kurt's broken body were over a dozen metal canisters of oil and gas, to one of which was strapped a long, cylindrical and crimson-colored piece of dynamite. Somewhere, a timer was slowly _clicking_; the charges, apparently, had already been set.

Logan pushed his fear aside and knelt so that he was eye to eye with his only friend, shaking Kurt gently to rouse him from his stupor.

"Kurt? You awake?"

A moan escaped the detective's lips, and Logan felt wild hope make his chest tighten as a swollen eye slitted open and focused upon him. Kurt's gaze would have widened in shock were it not for the bruises that nearly swelled his eyelids shut, but despite his wounds, his lips cracked open in a sardonic smile.

"Didn't…know…you cared, Logan," he rasped.

"Shut up and hold still," Logan replied gruffly, ripping Kurt free from his bonds and hoisting him over his shoulder. "Honestly, I leave you alone for five seconds and you manage to get yourself captured; what am I supposed to be, your nanny or something?"

"I…missed you…too…" Kurt replied, but then his tone turned very small and frightened. "Catherine…is she…?"

"She's fine," Logan said hurriedly. "In fact, she's probably already outside waiting for us by now. Just hold on and try not to exert yourself, okay? I'm gonna get you outta here."

"I don't think so."

A third voice caused Logan to whirl around, and his heart abruptly plunged into his innards as he stared down the barrel of Al Capone's Tommy gun. The gangster, contrary to Logan's former conclusion, had not yet decided to flee the scene. The crime lord had probably been following Logan every step of the way, hidden in the shadows and staying just beyond earshot so he could take them both by complete surprise.

"I suspected some sort of ill-conceived rescue attempt," Capone's face split into a sardonic grin, "And now that you're here, afraid I can't let either of you leave this place alive. Give my regards to Mr. and Mrs. Pryde when you see them, would you?"

The gangster leveled his weapon and curled his finger around the trigger-

_BLAM._

Capone glanced down at the crimson stain that was rapidly spreading across his Armani suit and tie. His face had a peculiar, perplexed look upon it, as though he could not quite believe what was happening. The Tommy gun dropped from his nerveless fingers and clattered harmlessly upon the ground as Capone's grip went numb with shock-

_BLAM._

Blood bubbled up from between Capone's lips as another bullet drilled into his back, and he half-turned his head just in time to see the vengeful expression on Catherine Pryde's face.

Slowly, deliberately, she leveled her weapon at his forehead and pulled the hammer back. "_Tell them yourself_."

_BLAM._

The last thing Al Capone ever saw was the flash of gunpowder before a Catherine emptied her weapon into his skull. He collapsed, his head spurting blood onto her dress as he died, and with tears streaming down her face, Catherine cast her weapon away and glanced anxiously at Kurt.

"Is he all right?"

"Still as snarky as ever, unfortunately," Logan muttered. "Nice job, by the way."

"It had to be done," Catherine said, with a remarkable amount of composure. "Now let's get out of here before those charges go off."

"I'm right behind you," Logan grunted, adjusting his grip on the limp form of Kurt and raising his voice so that he could be heard over the din upstairs. Taking a big breath, the cop ballooned his cheeks and bellowed at the top of his lungs, _"MORAN! GET YOUR MEN OUT OF THERE! IT'S RIGGED TO EXPLODE!"_

Up one flight of stairs and down the hall, Bugs Moran's face turned grim as he relayed the order to what was left of his men. "You heard 'im!" he roared, motioning for his enforcers to follow his lead. "Move it, or they'll be scrapin' what's left of ya into plastic bags!"

The Irishman seized a table and held it over his body like an impromptu shield as his men filed out the door or simply vaulted out of shattered windows and onto the street, Moran chief among them. There was no valor here, no hero who volunteered to stay behind and collect the wounded; only the strongest would survive, as was the custom among such brutal men. The dead and injured were left where they lay, and two stories below the ruined parlor, a small kitchen timer went off with a high-pitched _dinging _noise.

Three sticks of dynamite ignited instantly in a white-hot chain reaction of searing heat, and the mushrooming, roiling fireball that resulted from the ignition grew so large that the entire structure was practically disintegrated in one thunderous, earsplitting _ka-boom._ Pieces of shattered stone and mortar went sailing in all directions, trailing smoke and flame and ash as they soared through the night sky like fiery meteorites, and the enormous blaze that consumed the wrecked foundations of Capone's base was large enough to engulf an entire city block in searing hellfire. The air became thick with dust and ash and smoke that made it hard to breath, and the shockwave from the blast was so strong that it lifted Logan, Moran and Catherine clear off the ground and hurled them through the air as though they weighed nothing at all. Even through the blinding haze, it was clear that nothing at all remained of the place where Kurt had been imprisoned; the building had been completely vaporized by the force of the explosion, wiped completely off the face of the earth as though touched by an angry god, and so great was the blast that the streets became strewn with rubble for over a mile in every direction.

There would be nothing left by the time the dust settled. Capone, ironically, had attended to every detail.

Catherine's ears leaked rivulets of blood as her eardrums rang shrilly, and she took Logan's hand in her own as he helped her stagger to her feet. The unconscious Kurt seemed to be no more ragged and bedraggled than he'd been before the charges went off, and Logan listened intently for signs of life before a look of relief crossed his face.

"He's alive," he breathed, sagging visibly. "He ain't pretty, and he's bleedin', but he's alive."

"Wish…I could…say the same," came a wet, hoarse gasp from off to one side.

Logan's eyes widened as he beheld the charred and shrapnel-ridden form of Bugs Moran, lying on the pavement in a growing puddle of his own fluids, and despite her disdain for him, Catherine knelt down and laid him on his back so as to ease his passing. It was clear that the Irishman was not long for this world; he had been caught squarely in the explosion, as evidenced by the great, sucking wounds that had been torn open in his chest, and he fought to speak, heart was literally pumping the life out of him.

Moran's hand shook as he gripped Catherine's wrist tightly. "Did we…get him?"

She frowned. "Yes. As Logan said, Kurt's alive, but injured."

The gangster's lips twitched in what may have been a smile as she set him down gently. "Glad…to hear it…" he gasped, his eyes clouding over. "I don't want to have died…for nothing…."

His eyes flicked to Logan. "Take my car…get outta here…" he gasped. "Keys…in…pocket…"

A hoarse, rattling breath escaped from between his teeth, and Bugs Moran was no more.

Catherine slowly got to her feet. "We need to leave," she said dully. "I've seen enough death for one evening."

Logan turned his back to the flames as he rummaged in the slain man's coat. "I never liked him," he admitted. "But I suppose he wasn't all bad."

Catherine's face crinkled with sadness as Logan fell in step beside her. "No," she murmured. "I guess he wasn't."

A/N: A sad ending for Bugs Moran, but at least he helped our heroes get Kurt back safe! Coming up next: the epilogue! And PLEASE REVIEW! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW!

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	20. Chapter 20

The Witness

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

_(A/N: Just so you guys know, the song, "Into the West" by Annie Lennox from the movie "Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King" goes GREAT with the author's note of this chapter. You can find it on Youtube, by a user named "dogsrule344." Seriously, you should go and open a new tab on your web browser and bring it up before you read any further. It sets the mood PERFECTLY. ^^)_

Chapter 20: The End of All Things

Kurt spent much of the next two days unconscious. The wounds he had received while in the late Capone's captivity more than justified his comatose-like state; Kurt had in fact endured excruciations that would have killed men twice as strong as he.

The detective had been an extremely pitiful-looking sight when a bedraggled Catherine and Logan had carried him upstairs to the small bed in his apartment. The bed itself had been in need of new sheets shortly thereafter, as Kurt's injuries had a nasty habit of bleeding or oozing onto the bedclothes. Kurt's skin had taken on an unhealthy, light-blue pallor, his face drawn and thin and his once-bright yellow eyes grew dull and listless. The messy stump where his finger had once resided was a sickening sight to behold, the flesh crusted over with dried blood and Kurt's blue fur, which had been so glossy and soft when Catherine had run her fingers through it, had grown matted and greasy from want of a bath. Kurt had grown thin, too, abnormally so, for he had not eaten a crust of bread or sipped more than a drop of water during his time as a prisoner. His body, therefore, had grown gangly and skeletal, the flesh stretched like an ill-fitting garment over the framework of his bones.

Catherine never left his side for a moment.

Her first task, that of cleaning and darning Kurt's network of injuries, had been the most trying and gruesome part of getting her friend back on the road to recovery. By the light of a flickering lamp, Catherine had spent hours on end cleaning his half-healed cuts and lacerations with a warm, damp rag, bandaging them with strips of thick, white adhesive cloth that she'd found in Kurt's closet. Once, twice, and then three times Catherine had had to exchange her wet rag for a fresh one, as the half-congealed blood that seeped from Kurt's body had a habit of soiling anything it touched. Catherine's slender fingers remained steady and calm despite her overwhelming sympathy and concern for him, however, and it did not take long at all before Kurt's entire upper body was practically cocooned in a layer of white, scratchy linen.

Catherine silently thanked the fates that he hadn't required stitches. She was no doctor and had already tested her nerves to the limit, and Catherine would have been reluctant to delegate such a job to Logan because the cop had about as much bedside manner as the Spanish Inquisition.

Once Kurt's wounds had been seen to (and Catherine was relieved to be finished, as this had mandated the removal of Kurt's shirt and coat, to her embarrassment), the next task had been to get something in his empty stomach. Catherine's first impulse was to get a jug of water and pour it down Kurt's throat, but Logan, to her surprise, had cautioned her against it.

"What the hell are you doin'? It ain't good to give 'im too much o' that too quickly," he'd said, taking the pitcher from her with his characteristic grumpiness. "You never treat dehydration like that, lady! When a guy's dehydrated, you need to give 'im 'is water a little bit at a time, otherwise he'll git sick to 'is stomach. And let me tell you," he had added with a warning glare, "If that happens, I ain't cleanin' it up."

So Catherine had left the jug in Kurt's small icebox and opted instead to use a piece of unsullied bandage to trickle drops of cold, clear water into the side of Kurt's mouth. She did this every five or ten minutes for hours on end; the job was tedious, but Catherine would not and could not allow herself to leave.

After the heart-wrenching worry she'd felt in the wake of his abduction, it was reassuring just being in the same room with him, even if he _was _unconscious and couldn't say a word.

She felt her cheeks turn pink as she imagined what she wanted to say to him once he _did _wake up. Kurt had not remained conscious for very long after his rescue and had passed out before Catherine had had a chance to be honest with him about how she felt; in retrospect, that might have been a blessing in disguise, because making such an important declaration usually requires one to prepare themselves beforehand, to work up their courage so as not to fall speechless when the time came.

And that time, Catherine knew, was getting close at hand with each passing hour. Kurt had been at rest for more than a day already, and though he still looked like a shadow of his former self, his physical condition had been stabilized enough to enable his coherent thought processes to come back online. More than once, Kurt had shifted or stirred slightly, which was a sure sign of his imminent return to the realm of the living.

The mid-afternoon sun was bright and harsh outside, but Catherine had closed the drapes out of consideration for her friend's comfort. The rays of golden light shined through the cracks in the curtains and onto the floor as tiny dust motes swirled in the beams of sunshine, and she habitually checked her watch to ascertain the time of day-

_Groan._

A sound like a cross between a growl and a whimper nearly made Catherine jump out of her skin with surprise, and she started visibly as Kurt's eyelids began to flutter slowly open. His lips opened, but no sound came out; taking her cue, Catherine seized her rag and squeezed it to let a thin trickle of clean water run into Kurt's mouth. He drank greedily, looking almost like a baby bird with his mouth open to receive the life-giving liquid, and once he'd taken his fill, he shifted with a wince before Catherine put a hand on his chest to restrain him.

"Don't move around," she cautioned. "Or you could start bleeding again."

Kurt groaned in response, but his eyes never left hers. They burned with an intensity that belied his wretched physical state, and Catherine forced herself not to turn away from them as her hand gravitated to his.

Kurt swallowed and tried to speak. "Catherine-"

"How do you feel?" she asked. "Do you need anything?"

"Painkillers…for starters," he groaned and tried to sit up. "Feel like…I've been hit by a truck."

Catherine put her hand on his chest and eased him back down. "Don't exert yourself trying to talk," she cut him off hurriedly. "You're still very weak.

"No!" he gasped, his arm shooting out to grasp her by the arm and pull her so close that their noses were almost touching. "No more…waiting! Not…anymore! I have to say…_I should have told you …_"

"Tell me what, Kurt?" Catherine asked, though she very well knew the answer.

Kurt's tone shook. "That all we've been through... having you with me... it's everything... I've ever wanted." He tried to smile as his grip on her hand tightened. "I love you."

Catherine felt a rather large, uncomfortable lump begin to rise in her throat. "I love you, too," she whispered, cupping his cheek in her hand tenderly.

His arm curled around her neck and pulled her in closer, and Catherine found herself suddenly unable to resist. There was a moment of heart-stopping silence as he gazed at her with pure love in his eyes, and Catherine felt as though her entire body would melt in his arms as he pressed his lips to hers and kissed her.

Fireworks abruptly went off inside of Kurt's brain, and there had been an orchestra nearby, the musicians would have been playing Tchaikovsky's _1812 Overture. _Certainly the sweeping theme music would have been appropriate for the moment, but it is doubtful that Kurt would have been able to hear it at all as thoughts of _her _made his vision swim. The blood in Kurt's veins turned into roaring, pleasant fire, and he was half-convinced that he'd pass out from sheer happiness as she leaned in against him. . Her cheeks turned pink-_Oh, Lord, she was so cute when she blushed like that_- and Kurt felt all his worries and earthly cares begin to pale in comparison with what he was experiencing now.

Catherine, for her part, felt curiously _whole _in a way that she had never experienced before; in that one, crystalline, shining moment, it seemed as though a long-missing part of her had at last been found after years of searching. And it was true, in a sense, for Kurt _completed _her utterly, body and soul, and her heart sped up at such an alarming rate that its frenzied, deafening tattoo sounded like a drum in her ears. It was as if she'd been waiting for this moment all along without ever being aware of it; Kurt was the light at the end of the dark, dangerous tunnel that Catherine's life had become, and though she would always carry the sadness of her parents' death with her, she knew that Kurt would always be there when she needed him. His hands, the same hands that had slain so many of Capone's men, ran down her back and through her hair, and though they were strong enough to break bones and punch through walls, he would never hurt her; Catherine knew this instinctively with every fiber of her being.

Kurt felt almost dizzy and light-headed with joy. Who knew that the mere presence of another could be so utterly intoxicating?

When Catherine realized that she needed to breathe, she reluctantly pulled away but remained in Kurt's arms. She glanced away shyly, but Kurt put a finger under her chin and gently turned her gaze back to him. "You're a good kisser," he said, his mouth turning upwards with his trademark smirk.

"Stop it," Catherine slugged him playfully on the shoulder.

"You don't mean that," Kurt replied with a snicker.

"No, I guess I don't," Catherine admitted, and she went to kiss him again-

-Whereupon Logan shoved the bedroom door open with a loud, earsplitting _bang._

"Is he awake yet?" the cop growled. "Because if he is, I'm gonna kill 'im myself for being stupid enough to get himself captur-"

Logan's tirade was cut abruptly short as he realized what he had interrupted. A knowing, smug grin slowly split his face in a manner reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat, and he shot Kurt a knowing look before turning to leave.

"_Finally_," he muttered. "I was beginning to think you two would _never _get around to that."

"Death has a curious way of reshuffling one's priorities," Kurt replied, his voice now somewhat stronger due to the adrenaline rush of his very first kiss.

"Yeah, well, don't go makin' too much noise," Logan grumbled. "I swear to God, if you two start shakin' the ceiling, I'll tip the bed so that you both roll out the window."

The detective blushed furiously at what his friend was implying. "Well, I never-"

"Yeah," Logan retorted, before he could finish speaking. "_Clearly _you never."

"LOGAN!"

"Shut up and take it like a man, Wagner."

Kurt muttered something under his breath, but he couldn't force himself to stay angry. "So what's been going on while I've been out?" He asked. "The last thing I remember is Capone being shot to death."

Logan nodded. "By Catherine's hand, no less. That's some woman you've got there, Wagner."

Kurt's gaze was love-struck as he glanced up at her. "Tell me about it."

"Anyway," the cop continued. "Capone's death created a huge vacuum among Chicago's bootlegging gangs. They've bin practically tearin' themselves apart ever since; it won't be long before they exhaust themselves fighting each other, and by that time, their hold on the city will have waned. Mark my words, it's only a matter of time before the crime syndicates collapse from infighting. We've cut off the head of the snake, as the old saying goes, and all the dirtbags are busy killin' each other tryin' to take 'is place. Six of Capone's top lieutenants have already been shot to death by rival gangs."

"Their power base is broken, you mean," Kurt nodded. "Without Capone to keep his men in line, they'll eat each other."

"Exactly," Logan grinned. "I've got some pull with the Police Chief back at the department, Catherine. I told him that now was a good time to put the squeeze on the bootleggers, when they're too busy fighting each other to fight anyone else. We're already gearing up for a massive citywide raid."

"I wish it could have ended differently," Catherine's tone was bitter. "I wanted to bring Capone to trial, not kill him."

"He would have gotten off clean if you had," Kurt reminded her. "He had nearly every judge and lawyer in Chicago bought off."

"I know that," she sighed. "I just thought that, _maybe_…"

"Capone got what he deserved," Logan shook his head. "Don't lose any sleep over scum like him; he would have done even worse to us."

"_That _I can attest to with a fair degree of confidence," Kurt arched his eyebrow knowingly and looked at the place where his finger used to be.

Logan straightened and stood with a groan. "I'll be downstairs," he muttered. "Try not to make too much noise. And Wagner?"

"Hmm?"

The cop coughed into his fist. "I'm, uh, glad you're okay," he said awkwardly. "You looked like shit when we brought you upstairs."

Logan hurried down the stairs, obviously embarrassed, and Kurt snorted with smothered laughter as the corners of his eyes crinkled.

"He means well," the detective declared. "But sometimes I have the overwhelming urge to slap him."

"I'm sure he feels the same way," Catherine giggled.

"Of course he does," Kurt agreed. "That's why we work so well together."

"What about me?" Catherine asked with mocking severity.

Kurt's expression softened. "There's no comparison," he murmured, hugging her tightly. "I love you, Catherine, and I always will."

She returned the gesture. "Guess that means I'm here to stay, then."

Kurt's tone began to quaver again.

"I'd like that."

A/N: And so, at long last, we have finally come full circle, my friends. The Historical KURTTY Series has come to an end, and I don't think I have ever had the privilege of writing for so many wonderful, supportive and loyal readers. At this point, I would name each and every one of you individually, but there are so many to whom my thanks are owed that I would need a thousand pens and a thousand years to list them all. I take one last, final bow as I present this, the last chapter of my last KURTTY story, to each of you as my parting gift, and I want every single one of you to know that it has been my honor, my privilege and my _pleasure _to be given the gift of your continued readership. I can never express with words of any mortal tongue how grateful I am for all the wonderful advice and warm praise you have given me, and I am so, so _happy _and _blessed _to have known all of you throughout my series' continuation; "Hunted and Hated" was the start of a great adventure, and I am both humbled and proud to have had you all with me every step along the way. I will never be able to truly put in words what an amazing and wonderful experience it has been to provide you all with my stories, and as I sign off for one last time, I leave you all with not only my undying gratitude and eternal friendship.

My beloved readers, I am, now and forever,

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


End file.
